


Night Visions

by NekoShiiro



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bromance, Chuck stays a cinnamon roll, Depressed Newt, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Grievers run wild, M/M, Sassy Minho, Slow Build, Slow Romance, Thomas playing hero, To Be Edited, You won't want to kill Teresa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-06-06 14:37:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 70,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6758086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoShiiro/pseuds/NekoShiiro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been two years since Newt first woke up to the Glade, and since he and Alby managed to enforce simple but effective rules to achieve peace, nothing has changed. Every month means the arrival of a new boy to the Glade and another four weeks without finding a way out of the Maze that surrounds them, and every month Newt thinks that nothing will ever make him want to be alive again. That is, until a witty greenie called Thomas appears in the Box and begins questioning everything, a boy Newt feels strongly connected to by the visions they share at night.</p><p>Soon, Newt is to find out that Thomas is only the first of the several factors leading to the end of life in the Maze as the Gladers know it. They must work elbow to elbow to solve the Maze and get their people out alive, but as the visions grow stronger along with their feelings, they might have to face worse things than the creatures lurking the dark corners of the Maze--such as their hearts.</p><p> </p><p>TMR rewritten from a Canon!Newtmas PoV, which means this is the book Dashner should have sent his literary agent. Under edition, old chapters marked (*).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas wakes up in a rusty elevator not remembering anything except for his name... And so his new life begins.

Thomas could say that he began his new life on his feet, surrounded by a chilly darkness and stale, dusty air. Indeed, he woke up trapped inside a rusty elevator, which went up for what seemed to be a whole eternity, unable to see a thing and remembering only his name. Yes, breathing became no less than a challenge as he curled up against the metal walls and listened to the chirrups of the mechanism as it raised him to wherever he was being taken. But it still wouldn't be the truth. Maybe some new lives began that way, but not Thomas'.

Another idea might be that he began his new life panicking. True, he shouted and called for help until his throat sored up and he could only produce husky whispers, and then he banged his fists against the walls and the floor until his knuckles bled. Still, it wasn't how he began his new life. Only how he nearly broke both hands.

After the seemingly endless elevator ride, there was a violent pull, and then the cabin suddenly went eerily still. Scared by the little control he had over his circumstances, Thomas blew a last breath of air on his bruised knuckles and looked up, earning an unbearable itch in his eyes as his vision clouded with massive black patches. Bright lines of light stuck across the elevator like needles. With a grimace, he turned his head and raised an arm to shield himself from such pain, which wasn't little after all the time he had spent in the dark.

Noises over his head. Voices. They talked in English, but what they said made no sense. Thomas couldn't figure even half of the words, and for a second he wondered whether it was really his mother tongue being spoken up there.

"Look at that shank."

"How old is he?"

"Looks like a klunk in a T-shirt."

"You're the klunk, shuck-face."

Slowly, Thomas' eyes adapted to the light, and what had been blurry blacklit figures morphed into human beings. His cheek burned when a rope was thrown into the elevator, presumably to help him get out, and hit him generously. Rubbing his face, he clenched his teeth and steadied himself before grabbing the thick braided vines and climbing his way out. Once done, he looked around, and it shocked him to see only children and teenagers, all dressed in worn clothing. Some held hoes and sickles. Two had their hands dirty with what he hoped wasn't blood. There was one holding a menacing-looking knife, as if he were to either slaughter Thomas or chop a carrot into perfect slices.

"Nice to meet ya, shank," one of them finally said. "Welcome to the Glade."

Somewhere in the crowd, there was a snort. "Look at the Greenbean," chuckled a scratchy voice. "Gonna break his shuck neck checkin' out the new digs." Several boys laughed. What was the fun in that? Thomas was beginning to decide he didn't like the Glade much. A quick glimpse was enough to spot several massive walls, with equally massive openings leading into corridors. Maybe he could make a run for the nearest exit and leave all these people behind. He would worry about food and other small details later, when there weren't over fifty pairs of eyes watching him.

 

Someone cleared their throat. "Shut your hole, Gally," snapped a deep voice.

The dozens of strangers around Thomas stilled, and started muttering to each other shortly after. Some stared, frowning. A tall kid with blond hair and a square jaw sniffed at him, his face devoid of expression. At the front of the crowd, a short, pudgy boy fidgeted back and forth on his small feet, looking up at Thomas wide-eyed. There was a thick, heavily muscled Asian guy with his arms folded as he studied Thomas thoroughly, his tight shirtsleeves rolled up to show off rounded, perfect biceps. Back straight and dark eyes showing no mercy, a dark-skinned boy raised an eyebrow. Thomas recognised him as the 'Welcome to the Glade' guy. Around, countless others shifted their weight from one leg to the other, or played with their fingers, or simply observed Thomas with expressions ranging from amusement to disgust. The blond boy's he couldn't figure out. He looked confused, but not like the others. A specially-confused kind of confused.

"It's a long story, shank," the dark-skinned boy said. "Piece by piece, you'll learn—I'll be takin' you on the Tour tomorrow. Till then... just don't break anything." He held a hand out, stepping forward. It was pretty obvious that he wanted to shake hands. "I'm Alby."

Thomas just stared at him until he catched the hint.

His heart throbbed. He felt drugged. "Where am I?"

"If you ain't scared," Alby said, "you ain't human. Act any different and I'd throw you off the Cliff because it'd mean you're a psycho."  Visibly tired, he rubbed his eyes. "I ain't good at this—you're the first Greenbean since Nick was killed."

Thomas reconsidered sprinting towards one of the gaps in the walls and never looking back. Another boy stepped up and bumped a fist against Alby's shoulder—it was easy to recognise the blond boy from before, who hadn't taken his eyes off Thomas from the very moment his head popped out of the elevator. "Wait for the bloody Tour, Alby," he scowled, with a mischievous grin nonetheless. And an odd accent. "Kid's gonna have a buggin' heart attack, nothin' even been heard yet." Then he bent down and offered Thomas a hand, his smile warm. "Name's Newt, Greenie, and we'd all be right cheery if ya'd forgive our klunk-for-brains new leader, here."

Him being the only who had been nice to Thomas, he did earn a handshake. Suddenly Thomas felt an urge to look right into Newt's eyes. They were dark brown and as warm as his smile. Thomas held his gaze for as long as he could without it being impolite or straightforward strange. Newt didn't look away either. Then he stepped back and took a quick look at the whole of him, a moment Thomas seized to do the exact same. Newt was taller than Alby but had to be younger, around a year or so. Fair-skinned and muscled, his eyes were the biggest highlight of his face. Eyes Thomas met again after the mutual check-out, feeling his mind stir and reach out for memories which, provided that had once existed, weren't there anymore. Or maybe it was just a particularly strong déjà vu. Whatever it was, it was also a start. Because that, or better _he_ was how Thomas began his new life—looking into Newt's eyes.


	2. Newt, right?

"Get him a bed, get him to sleep," barked Alby, glancing at Thomas one last time before turning on his heels and leaving. Like sheep following a shepherd, most of the crowd followed suit, and soon Thomas was left alone with Newt, who rubbed his nape and sighed.

"Good ol' Alby," he sighed. "Always the bloody life of the party. Well, Greenie, come. Gotta get you a place somewhere around." When he realised Thomas wasn't listening, he raised an eyebrow and snapped his fingers right under Thomas' nose. "Hey. Talking to ya here."

"I'm Thomas," Thomas answered, looking at him in the eye.

"What?"

"I'm not him or ya. I'm Thomas."

Somehow, his chest felt tight. He looked away, chewing on his lower lip. The new situation was beginning to sink in slowly, and he didn't like it at all. He wanted answers, or at least something that could ease the growing pressure inside his chest. Such as knowing the reason why there were kids living in a walled prairie, what had he done to end up stuck with them or why Newt had looked at him as if there were spiders hanging from his noseholes.

"Till the next greenbean comes up, you're the Greenie." Newt looked at him, and shook his head. "Look, what you're feelin' we've all felt. We've all had First Day, come out of that dark box. Things are shuckin' bad, they are, and they'll get much worse for ya soon, that's the truth. But down the road a piece, you'll be fightin' true and good. I can tell you're not a bloody sissy."

They weren't the words Thomas would've asked for, but they helped anyway. As they walked towards a massive buiding, he breathed deeply. "Thanks, I... Guess." He rubbed his shoulder. "Newt, right?"

"Yeah, Greenie. And you made it bloody clear you're Thomas." Newt smirked, shaking his head. "Don't wanna stalk, but I have to ask you. Have I... Do we know from before? Ya rang a bell when you sprouted from the Box."

"So that's why you stared at me?"

Newt ducked his head and shrugged. "Yeah."

It took a few moments to find the right words. Thomas fumbled through his mind for a memory, anything to explain why Newt had felt familiar as well, but found nothing. Only emptiness and a disgusting feeling down his throat. "Don't know," he finally admitted through gritted teeth. "Could be. Not sure."

"Hmm."

None spoke any more. Above their heads, Thomas saw that the sky was already getting a darker shade of blue, which most surely meant he wouldn't get any answers until the Tour first hour in the morning. Then Newt stopped before the wooden building Thomas had seen from afar, and opened an arm in mock exhibition. "Here we are, Greenie. Ya'll be fine with Chuckie. Stay here, I'll be right back—"

Then a hair-rising scream pierced the air, echoing all over the place. Startled, both boys jumped. Thomas tasted the metallic flavour of blood in his mouth, and right after came a throbbing pain in his tongue. Newt cursed, brows knit in concern.

"Shuck it," he muttered, stomping on the floor. "Find Chuckie, tell him he's in charge of your sleepin' arrangement. Sorry, Greenie, but I gotta go. Seems the bloody Med-jacks can't handle that boy ten minutes without needin' me." Then he kicked Thomas' foot slightly, turned and ran inside the building, leaving him alone. Something clicked above his head, a metallic glimmer running across the branches of the several trees that flanked the building.

With a wide smile plastered on his face, the pudgy boy from before popped out of nowhere and grabbed his hand enthusiastically. "Beetle blade," he said cheerfully. Thomas jolted to the side, nearly dragging the kid to the floor. Shy, he let go of Thomas, but shook his head and collected himself quickly. "That was one of them beetle blades," he repeated, pointing to the top of the tree. "Won't hurt ya unless you're stupid enough to touch one... Shank."

It became obvious quite quickly that Chuck wasn't good friends with the silence. Even though his incessant blabber gave Thomas a good deal of information about the Glade and a dinner from Frypan's—apparently the place's cook—, it also made him suspicious. Because whenever Thomas asked about what happened upstairs at the wooden building, Chuck hurriedly dropped the topic and refused to meet his eyes. Only the name slipped his tongue: the Changing. Nothing else.

 

Despite being so exhausted that even his eyelids felt heavy, Thomas couldn't quite sleep that night. He tossed and turned in his hammock every few minutes, and ended up wrapped in covers. But he couldn't stop moving and simply drift off. There were too many things he needed to think about, from the fright of not remembering anything to the Changing and the screaming boy in the wooden building. The more he went over his conversation with Chuck, the more convinced he got that it was something big, dark enough that the twelve-year-old wouldn't tell him.

In the end he got up and went for a walk, sick of bouncing up and down the hammock and hearing the rest of the boys snore. Outside it was cool, and the prairie grass rustled softly under the breeze. The Glade was much quieter at night, but much scarier as well. Thomas remembered the heavy rasp of metal against concrete as the doors closed the gaps in the walls for the night, theoretically protecting them from whatever they were meant to leave out of the Glade. Still, the darkness and quiet stiffened his back.

Looking at the wooden building as he walked, he shivered, images from the afternoon flashing before his eyes. Gally—a skinny black-haired boy with a nose that resembled a deformed potato—saying he remembered him, had seen him during the Changing. Newt and Alby crouching above a bed in an upstairs room of the Homestead. A twisted, bloodshot-eyed pale boy deformed by thick green veins and purplish bruises, most covered in blood. Alby screaming at him. Newt on top of the boy, barely able to keep at bay his tossing and kicking.

"Shouldn't have gone upstairs before, Greenie."

Startled, Thomas looked down from the stars and saw—

— _Subject A10 is staring at me. He wears a filthy pacient gown, the dirty paper bracelet around his wrist crumpled, like the others, but somehow he's not afraid like them. I remember surveilling his brain waves. Despite the technology around us, which exists only among these walls—  
_

"Newt?"

"Thomas."

As the screens faded and the night settled again, Thomas realised he was still looking into Newt's eyes, only this time the real Newt's. Feeling a rush of worry, he shook his head and ran his fingers through his head. Had it been just the tiredness? Or rather some kind of—memory?

"I saw you," they said at the same time. Thomas blinked. If Newt had experienced the same, then it couldn't be the tiredness.

"Whatcha doin' in my head, Greenie? You wore a white lab coat, stared at me."

"Could ask the same," answered Thomas. "You... were wearing a gown, and... It was creepy around us. I think it was a high-tech laboratory."

Newt lowered his eyes, his cheeks quickly paling. "Same goes for you, Greenie. It was a bloody lab, I assure ya. Beeping screens everywhere."

"Just... Where does this come from? Do we know each other? Like, from before?" Thomas had to close his eyes, dizzy. He couldn't remember his surname, but of course he recalled Newt standing in the middle of an eerie lab dressed in a gown. Provided that they had known each other in the past, it was the only memory he had gotten back ever since he woke inside the elevator. But why that one? Maybe it had been there all along, and was the reason why his face had been familiar to Newt. Still, it had been to vivid, more a vision than a memory. Why at the same time as Newt? Why when looking at Newt? Why did everything seem to be related to Newt?

"Slim it," cursed Newt. "Around fifty shanks here, and it has to be you messing around. What's this? Never happened to me with the others."

Thomas frowned. "I think it was a—a vision, somehow. A memory would've been... Different." _Wouldn't have engulfed us that way, to begin with_.

"Great. We got the nutty Greenie. Of course it can be a memory. We're all bloody amnesiac here—Chuckie could be your sibling and you wouldn't know." Newt tapped his foot against the soil, folding his arms across his chest. "It's tricky here. Only the Changing brings back things, and even then people won't talk about it. Maybe we forgot for a good reason." He started pacing back and forth. "The whole lab thing—"

There was a thump and a hiss of pain as Newt collapsed to the floor, gripping onto his leg tightly, fingers digging into the fabric and the flesh. When Thomas dropped to his knees besides him, he hissed again, and harshly shook his head.

"What happens?" The urgence in Thomas' voice was alien to him. Something had stirred inside of him when Newt fell, and now his hands itched to help. "Are you—"

"Bloody leg," Newt growled, cutting him off. "I got a limp, and it won't leave me alone. Likes to hurt from time to time, shuck me a little every now and then." He tried to get back up, but it was quite obvious he couldn't stand on his own. He dug his fingers into the dirt, and panted. "Alright. Greenie, over here. You're gonna help me out a little. Bend down. There." Doing as he said, Thomas let him pass an arm over his shoulders and then rose slowly, giving him enough time to steady on his good foot before they headed for the Homestead, Newt's hobble growing worse with every step.

The Homestead's door was open when Thomas pushed it, presumably because Newt hadn't bothered closing it before. The infirmary was upstairs, and even though Thomas insisted that he should rest before climbing the stairs, Newt just clenched his jaw and crawled upstairs, breaking a sweat after the fifth step. Only when Thomas lead him to the bed he wanted and helped him lay in it did he close his eyes and still, piercing his lip as he tried not to scream. Thomas guessed it hurt worse each time, and wanted to do something—anything—, but Newt just let out a warning hiss and gave him a dirty look. After a few minutes, he sighed.

"These beds are real good," he said casually. "Gotta try one someday. Now be a good nurse and help me sit."

Once Thomas did as he requested, Newt opened the bedside table's drawer and reached for a small blue box, which he shook until a pill fell on his open palm. Then he raised his hand and swallowed the white tablet, coughing a little afterwards. Thomas took the box from him and put it back inside the drawer, unable to decide whether he should say something or not. Newt's mood, as he had quickly learnt, was unpredictable, and he didn't want anyone else snapping at him for what was left of the day. He looked at the floor and wringed his hands. He could use a hammock and fifty sleeping kids around him. When Newt's hand hung lifeless to the side of the bed, he absent-mindedly reached for it.

And he closed his eyes to control himself and quickly stuck his hands inside his pockets, trying not to freak out. Okay, alright, breathe in, breathe out. One, two, one, two, you don't want to hold his hand, and you're definitely not losing it right now. You're exhausted and deserve a good nap, that's it. You just met Newt, and you aren't willing to lay on that bed besides him and sleep. You're not, Thomas. Everything's okay. He studied a loose nail on the floor until he was certain he wouldn't do anything he would regret later.

"You feeling better?"

"Yeah, kind of. Painkillers come inside the Box every month. Help me get through." Newt rubbed his eyes. "The shanks don't know I have them. Keep quiet. They'd just whinge for one every time they scraped their knees."

Thomas nodded. "Don't worry, my lips are sealed." He quietened for a second, then said, "How did it... How did it happen? The limp, I mean."

No answer. Newt turned his head and stared at the window, which let in faint rays of moonlight that painted his face in a composition of gleam and shade. Lips pursed, he didn't look like he would talk about it. He was—

— _perfect. Not even the dim lab lights make him look any less than perfect. When he spots me, he offers a tiny smile. Heart racing, I ignore the rush in my ears. A10 never fails to leave me breathless. But he'll be sent soon. Too soon. Nikola told me he's one of the first, to herd the other subjects. I marked him as fit for the leadership, but now, looking at him, I wonder for the first time whether I made the right choice. He walks up to me, opens his lips—  
_

The vision faded when Thomas tripped over the bedside table, knee hurting like hell as he fell. He was back. Still in the Homestead, still closed night, still alone with Newt—and atop of him now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, was it too soon for cliffhangers? (It's never too soon for cliffhangers)


	3. Morning hopes

Newt's moan of pain was enough for Thomas to freeze, nose rubbing against Newt's and his weight heavy on the boy's bad leg. He quickly pulled his knee back to free Newt's leg, but Newt wriggled in pain and Thomas fell forward again, his forehead crashing against Newt's collar bone. Before he could mess up any further, Newt pushed him aside with a surprising strength and violently jolted up, teeth gritted as he crouched over himself and rubbed his leg. As he sniffed and breathed heavily, Thomas got up from the floor and looked around, growing more anxious when he didn't see anything to keep himself busy with. Then Newt patted the matress harshly, eyes fixed on the wall across the room as he stubbornly set his jaw and gripped the edges of the bed.

"What—"

"Shush."

"Can I—"

" _Shush_."

"Sorry."

Newt looked eager to shush him again, but he just stared at Thomas for a second before his eyes went back to the wall in front of him. He didn't reach for more painkillers. Sitting on the bed, he just breathed in and out evenly. Flushed, Thomas did the same. He didn't know why he wasn't gone yet. Possibly because his feet were glued to the floor now. Tired of feeling scared and weak all the time, he gathered the little boldness he had left and waited for Newt to make a move, either shout at him to get his ass out of the room or crack a joke. To be honest, he really hoped it was the second.

In the end, the boy sniffed. "Tell me."

"Sorry, what?"

Newt snorted, quite obviously irritated. "What you saw. Come on, Greenie. Don't dumb down. Quite obvious you were having another—whatever they are."

Which meant he had seen it, too. Thomas thought briefly of making up some excuse or at least lie about what he had seen, but understood it would only make Newt not trust him the moment he spoke. Still, they words he was being asked for weren't easy. If the visions were some sort of memories, or at least related to their past, they meant Newt had been sent to the Glade by someone, and Thomas had _known_. The fact that Newt was Subject A10 in his visions wasn't helping, either. In his vision, that he had had something to do with whoever 'they' were, the 'they' that had apparently sent Newt up here. And the Nikola guy—maybe he was Nicky, the one Newt had mentioned while he took him to the Homestead looking for Chuck? Beneath his eyes, his brain hurt from all the things that didn't make sense.

"It—You were—I just—I think you were sent here," he finally said, unable to meet Newt's gaze. "And I think we... We knew each other before. You weren't Newt and I don't know whether I was Thomas, but we seemed to be something close to... Friends."

No answer came. At least, Thomas thought sadly, he was a strong candidate for the Freak Greenie Of The Year Award. Heck, he was going to beat the other eleven new kids without breaking a sweat.

In the end, he bent forward towards Newt and touched his knuckles with his fingertips. "Sorry," he said again. Newt didn't answer, so he just sighed and left, unable to decide how he should feel about the whole thing.

 

His hammock was the only available one, so it wasn't hard to find it even among the dozens of sleeping boys. Not feeling any better than when he left, Thomas curled up on it, shaking despite the covers he threw on. Slow but steady, his heart recklessly pumped venomous doubt and insecurity through his veins to every last corner of his body, blood chilly in his veins. Newt and Chuck had been the only kind people at the Glade yet, and he was managing amazingly to scare the first away. And who knew, maybe he'd electrocute Chuck by accident the next time the kid touched him. He could almost smell that Award.

Someone grabbed his covers and pulled, and Thomas almost had a heart attack. It turned out to be just a sleepy Chuck. "Thomas? Was you?"

Well, at least he knew Chuck wouldn't die a steaming fried kid. Gentle hands took Chuck's and lowered them back to the boy's chest, which rose and fell steadily. "Yeah," Thomas said. "You alright? Nightmares?"

"Sure." The youth snored through the 'r' and the 'e'. Fast sleeper he was. Thomas patted his cheeks and closed his eyes, licking his lips and counting mentally. Eventually, he got bored enough that he started to drift off, certain that he would regret this short nap later but willing to dodge his thoughts for a while and rest.

 

 Of course, it felt like only seconds before they woke him up, stripping him off sleep with a firm shake. Eyelids glued, Thomas made a titanic effort to keep his eyes half open. It was still dawning outside, and all the other blurs around him slept safely on the floor and in their hammocks, some shamelessly overlapping others. He groaned. Seriously? 

"Ew, Greenie, morning breath. No fussin'," Newt warned as he covered Thomas' mouth with a hand. "Don't wanna be wakin' Chuckie, now, do we?"

Thomas shook his head, looking down at the child. His curls were spread in a circle around his head like a chocolate halo.

"Good. Now come on, Greenie. Supposed to show ya somethin' before the wake-up." Newt helped Thomas to his feet and then let go of his hand and his mouth. He didn't look angry from last Night, and Thomas wouldn't be the one to push his more than dubtious luck so early in the morning.

As they walked outside, careful not to step onto anyone's hand, Thomas discreetly raised his hand and tried to check his breath. When a faint stink reached his nose, he felt his face burn and made a mental note to ask for a toothbrush as soon as he was shown whatever it was. Without a warning, Newt started running as soon as they left the lawn area, heading for one of the massive walls that surrounded the Glade. He wasn't limping anymore. As they got closer to the southern wall, Thomas noticed soft red lights, gleaming intermitently like LED hearts.

"What are those?" he whispered as he watched them. They looked like a warning, but from what, he didn't know.

"When you bloody need to know, you'll know, Greenie." Newt put a finger over his lips, but Thomas decided that he had had enough.

"Well, it's kind of stupid to send me to a place where nothing makes sense and not answer my questions." Despite Newt's previsible outburst of rage, he then added, "Shank." Loaded with sarcasm, maybe the word had dug him a grave, but if he was to jump into the pool, at least he'd jump head first.

Surprisingly enough, Newt let out a short bark of laughter. "I like you, Greenie. Now shit it and let me show ya somethin'."

Newt hadn't brought him to watch the sun rise. He waited as Newt dug his hands into the thick ivy cascading from the top of the wall, behind which appeared a small window. Then they waited in silence, Thomas' stomach churning in anticipation after the other boy announced that _one_ would come along. One what, he didn't know, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. After all, he wouldn't have to hold his undies for a beautiful family of fluffy white rabbits.

And then it appeared. Disgusting enough that it would stay in his memory forever, the Griever rolled from side to side of the window with disgusting squeaky and plopping noises, its jellyish bulbous body quivering as it slowly crept forward. Wicked-looking blades, shears and rods shone deadly under its fat rolls as it crawled up the opposite wall, screeching against the stone occasionally. The cow-sized creature was a dreadful hybrid between flesh and machine, and before he could help himself, Thomas let out an ear-piercing shriek. Something frozen made his chest hurt, and he stumbled away from the window, all flush from the morning breath comment gone. Although Newt kept assuring him that they only came out at night, when the doors closed, he still feared for his life.

"Nasty bugger, eh? Everything we do—our whole life, Greenie—revolves around the lovin' Maze, and we want to show ya why it's not to be messed with. Show ya why them buggin' walls close shut every night. Show ya why you should never, never find your butt out there." Newt patted the wall and turned away from the window, smirking at the sight of him. "Told ya to hold your undies. Even the Runners klunk when the sun sets."

Thomas bit a side of his tongue, and peered through the narrow window again. The creature was gone already, but had left a faint trail of slime behind. As disgusting as it was, he couldn't help imagine himself going through the Maze, turning its corners and touching the ancient-looking stone and climbing the ivy. For some reason, and despite the nausea the Griever had caused him, Thomas felt drawn to the Maze. To its mysteries and secrets. Mostly to finding its exit.

"I must get in there," he mumbled to himself.

But Newt turned out to have a great hearing. "Wanna make friends with the bloody bugger?"

"Uh, not exactly." Thomas ran his fingers down the wall that kept them safe. "I want to get out of here."

"Yeah, me too. But killin' yourself won't do ya any good." Newt shook his head. "This isn't joke time. You've been sent to the Glade, Greenie, and now ya know the nice Maze bugger waitin' for us. We'll be expectin' ya to survive and help us do what we've been sent here to do. Find a way out, find a way home."

"So that means I can be a Runner."

This time, Newt's laughter was almost psycho.

"Of course bloody _not_." Lips curved into a crooked smile, he added, "If I can't trust ya not to trip over your own feet or a nightstand, then sure as hell I can't trust you to step out there. We ain't needin' any dead kid."

Around them, half of the Glade was already bathed in golden morning light, the prairie a fresh, light shade of green as it woke to a new day. Thomas stared at Newt, whose face gleamed under the sunlight streams. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"Don't. Just mind your step the next time." They rose to their feet, and Newt patted his dark pants, covered in dirt and grass. "Besides, the vision thingie is weird. I get why ya freaked. Friends, I don't know, but sure looks like we knew each other. No wonder you're acting weird around me."

"I'm not acting weird," said Thomas, folding his arms across his chest. "But everything here's just so confusing and no one will give me answers, not even Chuck. Excuse me if I'm tired of waiting for a good samaritan to fall from the sky and give me a Guide to the Glade or at least a decent welcome."

Newt threw his head backwards, looking at him through his eyelashes with a sarcastic smile. "So ya want the friggin' Queen to kiss your sorry butt, eh? Came up in the wrong Box then, Greenie."

"Well, what a shame, then."

They started walking back to the Homestead, where several boys had gotten up already. Newt pointed towards an open door where people flowed in and out. "Go to Frypan's and stuff yourself. Gonna be tough today for ya, Greenie. Alby's in a black mood today, so shut your hole and let him do the talkin'. Also, don't mention you wanna become a Runner. Which you don't wanna."

"But I do."

"Bloody Greenie," Newt laughed. "Bad idea you got there. Real bad. Forget about it and maybe you'll live longer."

The smell coming from the door was dubtious at best, but Thomas' stomach still grumbled at the thought of something edible. The Tour with Alby promised to be everything but fun, so he could as well face it with a full belly. He went for the door and assumed Newt would do the same, but then he grabbed Thomas' wrist and pulled him close again.

"One last thing. Don't tell anyone about the visions, ya heard me? I'd say don't have them, but I'm assuming among your skills isn't the control of them."

Thomas arched his eyebrows. "I'm not stupid enough to go around talking about freak labs. In case you were wondering."

They looked at each other in the eye, and then Newt's lips slowly curled up into a smile.

"Can't wait for the Baggers to put their hands on you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kudos and the lovely comments! I really did my best when plotting and writing this down, and I'm so happy to see that it's working :)


	4. It's a girl!, and that's not bloody half of it

Despite being amnesiac, Thomas was fairly sure he didn't like first days. That was before Alby took him in the Tour.

After the Tour, Thomas was sure as heck he hated first days.

Alby seemed to be on a costant mood, which didn't make him the best guide ever. Five minutes of the Tour, and Thomas had already learnt to keep his mouth shut. As the guy had put it, "Ain't no questions till the end. Ain't got time to jaw with you all day. I'll tell ya what I wanna tell ya." Thomas was beginning to realise how little Alby liked him, or people in general for that matter.

"Can I come?" had asked Chuck from the table, a milk mustache thick under his nose. The mustache ran down his cheeks as he grimaced with a shriek when Alby tweaked his ear harshly.

"Ain't you got a job, slinthead? Lots of sloppin' to do?" Then he let go of Chuck and motioned towards the Box with his chin harshly. "Ain't got all day, shank. Move it."

Thomas offered Chuck a sorry smile before running after Alby, who walked at a surprising speed. Then they started the Tour at the Box, where Alby started listing functions and places and the several jobs that Thomas would be trying for the following days and the Glade's functioning and conspiracy theories about the 'Creators' that had put them all in the Glade and sent a new kid and food every month. Never bothering to look at him in the eye, of course.

"Glade's cut into four sections—Gardens, Blood House, Homestead, Deadheads. Got that?"

Knowing how Alby wouldn't like it if he complained how everything kind of looked the same, Thomas nodded and looked around, hoping that he would learn to tell the zones apart soon. The Homestead looked like a massive pile of weird-angled wood, whereas the Gardens were a big stain of dirt where several crops were being harvested. Where the patch of forest started was what Alby had called Deadheads, the graveyard and—eerily enough—place to hang around, and in front of it at the southeast corner was the Bloodhouse, a big barn from which came a faint bleating. Overall, the Glade was an intelligently designed place, and Thomas felt a strange glee inside when he realised this.

"You'll spend the next two weeks working one day apiece for our different job Keepers—until we know what you're best at. Slopper, Bricknick, Bagger, Track-hoe—somethin'll stick, always does. Come on."

Thomas followed Alby towards the South Door, holding back an answer. _Runner will stick._ Around them were boys working, some with rakes, some with hammers, some weeding, two watching over a flock of sheep as they grazed near the forest. Chuck was nowhere to be seen, and Thomas hoped that the Keeper of whatever job he did would be kinder to him than Alby had. It wasn't a difficult thing. A cow mooed at them as they walked past, chewing at its hay. The pens were the fullest place, people bustling about as though they had been born with a straw between their lips and running a farm. Besides it, the rust-coloured barn looked grim and hollow.

Then they reached the South Doors, two massive walls flanking a thick gap through which Thomas could see a patch of wall similar to the one the Griever had crept up. Sticky flesh and soft wet plopping noises came back to his mind, and he had to make an effort to keep his breakfast down in his stomach. Alby gave him a sideways look and smirked.

"Out there's the Maze," he said, pointing at the exit with a thumb. It was big enough that Thomas could imagine a Griever rolling through it. He shivered and took a step backwards unconsciously. Then he realised what he was doing, how he was chickening, and undid the step. Alby didn't seem to care. "Two years, I've been here. Ain't none been here longer. The few before me are dead."

Maybe that was why he was so bitter. Maybe he didn't want to get too close in case someone else died. Still, Thomas thought, that didn't give him the right to be a jerk with even small kids.

When the boy motioned towards the building where the Runners mapped the Maze each day, he drew closer to the exit only to have Alby push him backwards. His hand was big enough to cover Thomas' chest almost fully—slap it almost fully. "You think I sent Newt to ya before the wake-up just for kicks?"

As Alby threatened to kill him if he ever broke the Number One Rule and went inside the Maze, Thomas only grew more convinced that he must do it. He _would_ do it. He would be a Runner, and good luck if anyone tried to tell him otherwise. Clenching his fist, he forced himself to look away from the Maze, only to catch the silver glimpse of a Beetle Blade, which he now knew was the Creator's way of watching them. It had barely disappeared from sight when a loud, intense siren that seemed to be coming from everywhere choked Alby's words, ringing in Thomas' ears harshly enough that he could feel his head pulsing to the rythm of his heartbeat. However, Alby didn't look afraid but rather puzzled.

Over the booming alarm, he shouted, "What's going on?" It appeased him to see that Alby wasn't freaking out, but even so, he was tired of feeling lost and afraid and overall answerless.

But all Alby said before setting off for the shiny metallic structure of the elevator Thomas had come up in the previous day was ' _The Box, shuck-face, the Box!_ ' Speeding up, telling himself that things would be okay and that there had to be some reason for everything happening right now, Thomas hurried and joined the other dozens of kids gathering to watch whatever was happening. Among the crowd he spotted Newt, who was strangely calm and walked up to him the moment Thomas called his name. Unlike Thomas', his stomach didn't seem to be backflipping from hearing the siren. Feeling a wave of warm reassurance despite the cold fear settled in his cheeks, Thomas thought, _At least he'll answer, won't he?_

"Newt, what's going on!"

He patted Thomas' back swiftly, offering a small smile. "Quaking in your boots, Greenie? Means a bloody Newbie's comin' up in the Box." He paused and looked at Thomas, as if waiting for him to be impressed. "As in right _now_."

Something nagged at the back of Thomas' mind, something Alby had said that felt important. But he couldn't recall it. "So?" Then he scanned Newt's face and discovered excitement, even joy, where he had thought there was calm.

"So?" Newt teased. Then he shook his head. "Forgot ya know nothin' yet. Never had two Newbies show up in the same month, much less two days in a row."

Thomas frowned. "Is it bad?"

"Ain't happened before, Greenie. Don't bloody know." Newt grabbed his wrist and pushed him along towards the thick crowd of Gladers, were the blabber was growing lowder every second. "Let's go find out."

 

It was a full two minutes before the alarm died off. Thomas had made his way to the inner edge of the circle, where Alby stood with Newt by his side and watched the Box's closed doors. When the last echoes of the ringing siren faded, he and Newt bent to grip the Box's hook-handles, pulling to open the elevator. A cloud of dust rose, making Thomas' eyes itch. It settled slowly.

Newt crouched and rested a hand on the grass for support as he leant forward to peek inside the Box. Everyone held their breath when he scrambled backwards, bewildered. "Holy—" he muttered, eyes fixed on the Box's open doors.

The Gladers looked at each other, uneasy. "What's in there?" Thomas asked in the end, earning a dirty look from Gally. Besides him, Chuck made a squeaky noise and hugged himself.

"No way," Alby panted. Eyes wide open and fists against the ground, he couldn't look away from the Box. Question after question popped from the Gladers, some on the edge of panicking. "Hold on! Just hold on!" he yelled then. Everyone fell dead silent as he gritted his teeth. "Two Newbies in two days. Now this. Two years, nothing different, now this." Rage steaming in his eyes, he lifted his gaze to Thomas. "What's goin' on here, Greenie?"

Scared stiff, Thomas felt fifty pairs of eyes on him. "How am I supposed to know?" There was a violent heat in his cheeks.

"Maybe you had something to do," said Gally. His noseholes were wide as he stared at Thomas with disgust. "I'm telling you all, he's not to be trusted."

"I didn't do anything," Thomas insisted.

"Hope I could believe you, shuck-face," Gally hissed at him.

Newt finally rose. "Everyone shuts it."

Gally frowned, but didn't push his luck with Thomas. "Why don't you just tell us what the shuck is down there, Alby?"

"You shanks shut up!" Alby yelled, pale. "Tell 'em, Newt."

Biting his lower lip, Newt faced the crowd, slowly taking in everyone's face. Then he set his eyes on Thomas and spoke, his voice deeper than usual, his tone flatter.

"It's a girl."

 

The Glade bursted into blue jokes and questions, everyone dying to see the female Newbie. Only Alby, Gally, Newt and Thomas remained silent, the latter too startled to even hear Chuck's excited blabber. Alby had buried half of his face in his hand, and Gally was staring at Newt, who hadn't taken his eyes off Thomas. Gaze lost, Newt seemed to be far away. Thomas guessed there had never been any girl before. Not even among the first, the dead. Not ever.

After a while, Newt shushed them again. "That's not bloody half of it," he said, then pointed his thumb at the Box and shook  his head. "I think she's dead."

Ivy ropes were thrown inside the Box. Alby and Newt slipped down the open doors to retrieve the girl's body while the Gladers waited in silence. Everyone squeezed together to get a look at her when she was lifted up. Thomas wanted to step forward and help, but he was pushed backwards by a wave of anxious boys the second he thought of it. He could only catch a glimpse of the girl. Thin, not too small. Jet black hair and ivory skin.

Then the crowd loosened as the Gladers realised she wasn't moving any soon, and Newt motioned for Thomas to come closer. "Greenie, get over here."

All Thomas could think of as he did as told was how much his tone resembled Alby's.

Shuck day it had been so far. He had tried to play it cool, shut up and be a nice Greenbean—heck, he hadn't had the time to do anything wrong. 

"You know this girl, shank?" Alby asked harshly.

"Know her? Of course I don't know her. I don't know anyone. Except for you guys."

But Alby wouldn't cut the questions, and Thomas slowly realised why. Alby said—Alby thought—

The Gladers thought that he had—

Blood chilled in his veins the moment he realised. He turned and looked at Newt desperately, searching for understanding. Reassurance. Denial of what Alby had said, trust in him. Something. Anything.

But Newt looked away, and Thomas didn't know what it meant. "Slim it, Greenie. We're not sayin' you bloody killed the girl."

Except that Alby did.

Thomas rubbed his arms and looked down at the still body, wondering how small was the possibility that a hole would open beneath his feet and swallow him whole. Really small. "I don't know her, I swear. I don't know what's going on here but I don't know the girl. I don't."

"Alright, Greenie, we believe you. Calm the shuck down," Newt said, resting a hand on his shoulder. Thomas shook it off. He hadn't killed anyone, he knew he hadn't. All the amnesia in the world wouldn't have made him doubt himself on that. He hadn't killed the girl. He knew he hadn't.

Everyone was poker-faced when he looked around for someone who understood—even Chuck looked away, unable to meet his gaze. Probably thinking that he might have killed the girl. _Slim it._ Thomas' head throbbed, and he felt his throat close. He bit his lip until it started bleeding, then dug his nails into his palms until he could feel them bleeding too. External pain matched internal. The walls of the Maze seemed to be closing in, their tallness crumbling upon his head.

Suddenly the girl jolted awake and shot up sat, darting blue eyes wide open, like sapphires. Taking a huge breath and scaring everyone to death, she went very still as she spoke.

"Everything's going to change."

Then her eyes rolled and went blank and she fell backwards, her right fist in the air. Thomas could see she was clenching something. Newt was the first to react, leaning over the girl and opening her hand with his shaky own. Paper. The girl was holding a paper. He rubbed it flat and read it, dropping to his knees as he did so. Then he looked down at the girl and went lifeless, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Thomas moved behind him to get a look at the note.

There were just five words, written in black ink. Five single words.

 

**She's the last one.**

**Ever.**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who're wondering, yes, this follows the book. Some things are obviously altered to slip in Canon!Newtmas, but otherwise this is (kind of) TMR. Just in case someone felt a little confused about it.


	5. First days are bloody clunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone seems to think that Thomas and the girl are connected, at least -and Gally's specially pissed with Thomas. While the boy tries to remember something from his past life and piece down the Glade and its mysteries, yet another one appears under the form of a silver glimpse. When Thomas chases it into the forest, he thinks he's all alone at first, but is that true? Or is there someone that might think of him as a menace worth killing?

Not a soul moved nor flinched for a second. Then someone cracked a nasty blue joke, triggering a typhoon of whispered comments and childish sniggering. Primary school toddlers would have behaved better, Thomas thought—at least because they would have had more interesting businesses to mind.

"Everyone, get the shuck back to your thing!" Alby howled. Two or three boys he slayed with a fearsome stare before the crowd got the message. Shaking their heads and taking the last peeks at the unconscious girl, the Gladers slowly walked away until only their two leaders, Gally, Thomas, and Chuck were left standing around her.

Two Med-jacks took the new newbie—because okay, Thomas was mostly terrified that they might charge him with murder on his second day, but a small part of him was just too sick of the whole newbie thing and demanded that someone else take the dubtious honour before worrying about anything else—to the Homestead. Which was quite unuseful, on the other hand, because they had no meds nor any idea what happened to her. It was simply as if Alby wanted to say, 'Hey, we have no clue what to do with you, but at least we ain't being nasty' in case she woke, or the Creators decided to drop by to check on her.

Slight gusts of breeze tickled on their cheeks. Alby turned to Newt. "Something's whacked. Call a Gathering."

Whatever a Gathering was, it sounded official enough.

Both of them walked away, discussing through gritted teeth. As they became figures the size of a fist stencilled against the diffuse grey of the Northern Wall, Gally dramatically spun around to stare at Thomas despectively and spit. Thomas and Chuck were quite literally taken aback, staring at the bright mucus on the grass.

"Enough of this sick little game."

"Sorry?" Ducking his head to the right, stray, Thomas stared at Gally, all menacing looks and pumped-up arms folded across the chest. He looked like a fighting bull ready to drive the horns deep into Thomas' side.

"Newt. Stood up for you, slinthead. Not something he'd usually do for a dumbass Greenbean, leave alone a little klunk who comes out of the Box like he owns the place. You think you're better than us, eh? Maybe you want to teach us some lesson, yeah?"

"Listen, I—"

"Now you listen up, slinthead, 'cause I ain't repeating this. I saw you during the Changing, now I see you drooling over our second-in-command. You're up to no good. Take my advice, little piece of crap—we aren't in any need here for shucks like you who seek power, and if I have to dirty my hands to bring you down, it's going to be my pleasure. Believe me. One false move and I'll sink you in the stinkiest shucking klunk. Watch out, Greenbean."

The phlem that put an end to his glorious threat landed dangerously near Chuck's foot. Both Thomas and he took a new step backwards. With one last scornful glance, Gally left. Thomas shook his head in a mood that was somewhere inbetween incredulity and disbelief.

"Hey, what's his problem? This is my second day. I haven't had the time to mess up with anyone." He raised his hands, palms up, in wonder.

"Everyone is Gally's problem," said Chuck, and patted his shoulder. "Worry little or simply don't worry. It just means you're one of us now. Welcome aboard!" His smile seemed to falter for a second, so brief that Thomas assured himself it must have been an optical illusion. "We're all in the same boat, here."

With a shrug, Thomas rubbed his cheek. The sun felt warm on his skin now, and the bright emerald carpet below his feet rustled with the morning breeze. "Thanks, I think. Whatever." His stomach roared in protest. "Oh, right, I didn't finish breakfast. Can we get something somewhere? I'm starving."

Chuck grined at the beastlike noise and nodded, grabbing Thomas' hand. "You think you're better than us, eh? You wanna breakfast outside breakfast hours, little klunk?"

His attempt at Gally's contempt was terrible. "Go to hell," Thomas laughed, and followed him into some Frypan guy's kitchen. Chuck turned out to be better at making sandwiches than he was at imitating people, and the meal he prepared tasted like heaven to Thomas. So far, food was the only thing he had found worthy in the Glade.

As Chuck ranted endlessly about a thousand superficial topics he couldn't seem to run out of, Thomas' eyes vaguely registered a silvery glimpse hurtling across the forest. Two words echoed in his mind—Alby had spoken about them 'beetle blades' during the Tour, the Creators' shiny pets that kept them under surveillance around the clock. And if they were a way to get information from the Gladers to the Creators, they might as well be a source to snatch some knowledge from the Creators by the Gladers. Curious enough to drop his carrot sandwich, Thomas bolted to his feet and went for the machine, oblivious to Chuck's cries of warning.

 

From the four sections the Glade was cut into, the one Thomas had liked the most was Deadheads. It took up no more than a few acres of pure forest, although it was darker and vaster once inside. Intertwined over his head, the trees' branches braided into a dome of leaves and twigs that allowed no ray of sunlight through. As he chased the beetle blade, Thomas noticed the lack of light was growing worryingly, enough that he might have to give up an turn around for his safety's sake. He jumped, ducked as many obstacles as he could, nonetheless tripped over some roots—but the brains behind the machine were intelligent, and the thing wouldn't slow down any bit. In the end it jumped behind a particularly thick trunk, and vanished before Thomas could track it again.

"Shuck," he mumbled in anger. It came out naturally, as if he had been born a dirty-mouthed Glader instead of brought up inside a cranky elevator some hours ago.

Odd cracks besides him spurted a gelid chill throughout his body with every irregular heartbeat, and he somehow knew that he wasn't alone. Although he screamed for whoever was prowling close by to show up, no one came out of the shadows. Was he paranoid? His forehead was sticky with sweat when he rested the back of his hand against it. The place was making him go nuts.

"Who's this? Show up!"

Silence.

"Anyone there?"

No answer.

The noise had quietened, which made him a little less nervous. Maybe it had been some lost cattle, or a clumsy beetle blade. There was no need for it to be dangerous, now, was there?

"Hey, it's me, Thomas. New guy—okay, second-newest guy."

Oaks closed in above him, and he went around a particularly huge one, stepping into what seemed to be a graveyard. Looking around, he felt something chilly slowly running down his spine.

Leafy weeds carpeted the small clearing's soil like a tapestry woven in earthy colours, a few rudimentary wooden crosses made out of sticks rising above here and there. Painted in white with names carved on them, they looked particularly saddening. Stephen, George, Nick. There could be no more than a dozen graves. Each dead boy's cross made his eyes itch a little more, and his heart sink a little deeper. He was tracing the name 'Santiago' when another twig cracked broken, and the snaps grew closer and more frequent.

"Who's around?" he yelled, tensing unbearably, ready to either fight or run away. Voice shaky like an earthquake, steps careful as a cheetah's. He looked around.

Suddenly something burst through the dry bushes and tackled him roughly to the floor, cutting him mid-sentence and knocking all the air out of his lungs. The boy, for it had to be a boy because the only girl in the Glade lied comatose on a bed in the Homestead, let out a raucous, beastly grunt and wiggled, struggling to get atop of Thomas. With a fierceness that was completely out of hand he leaned down and bit Thomas' shoulder, deep enough that Thomas could feel it dangerously close to the bone. It hurt like hell. Like many, many hot hells.

With the burst of pain came adrenaline that helped clear up his mind, and the momentary lucidity allowed him to push his attacker aside and recognize him. Whiter-than-white-skin tight over his bones. Thick veins mapping his body, pulsing in a nasty shade of green. Bloodshot eyes sparkling with dementia. He observed Thomas as if he were a prey he had just hunted down as he produced a knife out of the rubber waistband of his dirty trousers.

Ben.

Survival depended on how fast he could run, because if he made it to the Glade, he could get some help. But that required making it to the Glade, which he knew was far away from the distance he had run before. And Ben might be sick, but he still had quite an iron muscle to be taken into account. Probably he had been a Runner, so he wouldn't find it any difficult to hunt Thomas down. Every solution Thomas came up with struck him as impossible or futile, until all he could think of was, _I am going to die here, and no one is going to care_.

"Ben!"

And they might not even find his rotting corpse. He would feed the worms forever.

"Ben, get the bloody shuck off him!"

Thomas glanced to his right in time to see Alby cross the bush row at the edge of the clearing, carrying a large bow loaded with a silvery arrow that he was aiming straight at Ben. Behind him stood Newt, holding a short knife and looking somber yet ready to intervene.

Atop of Thomas, Ben turned his head in a violent jolt. "He's not one of us! He's—he's bad," he cried, voice dyed with madness and urgence. 

Even though he was walking the wire and the steps he was taking weren't even his doing, Thomas gathered enough insanity to frown at that. What on Earth was these people's problem? Some seemed to have tagged him as a potential Antichrist from the moment he climbed out of the Box, which was beginning to tire him greatly. He didn't care much whether the Gladers had had to toughen up to survive among the Maze's walls. They sucked at welcoming.

"Now, now, Ben," Newt said, making an appeasing gesture with his free hand. "Okay, alright. Got it. Gonna give it a thought, yes? But for that we need you to let him go." The knife he was holding glimmered faintly as he moved his hand for greater emphasis.

Ben produced a small, strangled sound, like an animal dying, and closed his fists around Thomas' filthy T-shirt. "He's bad," he repeated. "He's bad, he's bad, he's bad bad badbadbad."

"I'm gonna count to three," Alby announced, calm on the surface. Thomas could almost hear the waves of helplesness and determination crashing beneath.

Which indeed roared like a typhoon when Alby let go of the shiny arrow, setting it free to fly towards Ben. There was an ugly, wet sound, and then a heavy weight was lifted off Thomas as Ben's motionless body dropped to the ground, tiny black dots splashing Thomas' face as a dark liquid oozed from the hole in his cheek. Weirdly angled, the arrow that had pierced Ben's flesh resembled one of the graveyard's crosses.

Alby lowered the bow, whereas Newt sheathed his knife. None looked at the boy's body. 

"Baggers gonna take care tomorrow. Your business from here on, Newt. I gotta inform the other Keepers."

He cleared his throat before turning. As he walked away and disappeared behind the foliage cascading from the several trees at the edge of the clearing, he clenched the bow with such strength that his knuckles turned white. Then he relaxed the hand and almost dropped it.

Nuts. They were all nuts. There was something heavy at the pit ofThomas' stomach that was sinking—maybe his spirits. Life was seemingly worthless for them all, and at the thought he wanted to throw up every single bite of his carrot sandwich. One boy had just died in front of his eyes in a way too twisted, to unnatural. Bitterness scratched his throat as the first wave of nausea hit him.

"Go ahead. Barf all ya need, no worries. I've seen worse than puke, Greenbean, trust me." 

He spoke so plainly. It was too much.

As Thomas cleaned his mouth, which tasted disgustingly now, Newt rested a careful hand on his shoulder to give it a quick squeeze.

"Twelve of us were buried 'ere and there won't be a thirteenth. Maybe you think we're bloody cranks and maybe that's a little true, but we ain't losin' anyone else." His crooked smile hurt from the sadness it held. "Everyone matters, Greenbean. Everyone. Even if you haven't asked for Alby and me, we still gonna protect all of ya. Ben threatened one of us—" he sneaked a peek at the body besides them, and slightly shrunk, "—so we had to do somethin'."

Suddenly something seized Thomas. Chest tight, teeth chattering, he crouched and held his head between his hands. Everything around him faded into thick darkness as he ran short of air and loaded with tears. Too many things and changes and unknowns and feelings and unanswered questions and nerves and why the heck was it cold now and the whispering river somewhere nearby and how the heck was he going to survive the madness he had just walked into and just heck, heck, heckin' heck, heck to the heckin' heck because heck, what was he supposed to be feeling or doing, because it all was so wrong and he couldn't breathe and oh maybe if he choked he would be lucky because bye-bye Glade but no, he wouldn't be lucky because he never was and he would have to endure whatever the Maze threw at him. And he didn't want to, and he couldn't breathe.

Hands on his, Newt started speaking softly, but Thomas couldn't hear a word. Quivering slightly, he forced the tears back and focused on how the boy's mouth moved to produce sounds he wanted to hear, so calm the shuck down and listen, body, because this might be important or irrelevant but at least it's something.

 

"—Alright. First days are bloody clunk, get it. Things get better. Days ain't always this crazy. Now just tell me what ya need me to do, because you're giving me a heart attack. This gonna be over, and ya gonna feel better soon."

Thomas closed his eyes and closed his hands into fists against his temples, and waited until the furious knocking of his heartbeat against his forehead died down a little. Then he carefully spoke up.

"Well, how do you—"

But the sentence was left unfinished, because when he looked at Newt the world was engulfed by a new vision.


	6. Being alright is the point (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Ben's attempt to kill him, Thomas' shocked. While setting for the Glade, Newt's hobble strikes, and even though he doesn't want to be helped, Thomas takes him to the Homestead. Is arguing going to be the dynamics between them? It'll better not -maybe there are secrets about Thomas' past that he can only discover with Newt's help...

_Merely a subject, that's what he's to them. A stupid number, a toy, something they think they can play with. But he's more than that, so much more. His warm brown eyes are burning mine, demanding, looking for answers, but how could I possibly tell him? How could I ever gather the braveness I need to—_

_—_ To what? Winking, Thomas unwillingly stepped back, and the laboratory faded as the Glade began to slowly surround him again. It was still dark, thanks to the forest's trees, but not as much as in their vision. Nervousness made him bite his lower lip, unconsciously piercing it and making it bleed. What had he been about to tell Newt?

Newt lifted a hand, and wrinked a curly lock with two long, pale fingers. Visual contact had been broken, and he avoided looking at the other boy. Scared wasn't the word to describe him; it was more like defenseless, vulnerable. Ever since he arrived to the Glade, Thomas had perceived Newt as someone with a very strong personality; what had he seen to have that feverish sparkle misting his eyes?

"Newt, what—"

"Don't, Greenie. Just don't. Ya warned. Don't go down that path."

Without another word, he turned, and started walking towards what must be the way out of Deadheads. Only then Thomas noticed the metallic flavour in his mouth, which he unsuccessfully tried to wipe away with the back of a shaky hand. What had Newt seen, that had disturbed him so much? The more he thought about it, the more he needed to know the answer; he felt as if he couldn't find peace until he discovered the truth.

When the boy had almost reached the edge of the clearing, Thomas heard him release a quiet hiss; he payed closer attention, and noticed a hobble that was becoming more and more pronounced with each step. Was that his infamous limp? Whatever it was, it must hurt.

"Hey! Wait!" He ran towards the boy, who had bent down while walking and was massaging his leg. "Wait a sec. I'll help you out, but you've got to stop." He received a grump, but his demand was fulfilled as well.

The boys made their way to the Homestead, which Thomas was starting to know very well. There were scarce Gladers around, and no one dared asking what had happened. Judging by their sad faces and silence, Alby had already said that Ben wouldn't be joining them for dinner that night, nor any night from then on. The Med-jacks lent them a random empty bed, and shortly after left, having given them some ointments. Thomas didn't know if they knew about their second-in-command's limp; just in case, he lied and said that he needed some because of Ben's tackle.

"You're jacked, Greenie. You should've minded your own business." His voice was ice cold.

Thomas shook his head, annoyed. Enough with that attitude. "Okay, listen up. Just ten minutes ago, you were all kindness and that stuff, and right now you're about as friendly as a Griever. What the hell's going on?"

Instead of punching him right in the face or shouting at him to leave, Newt sunk his chin in his chest, gripping his trousers' fabric. "Just leave me alone, will ya."

"I won't."

"WELL, BUT I DON'T WANT YA AROUND!" Newt shouted, his cheeks bright red. "Bloody hell, why're you even 'ere? Why're ya 'ere again, Thomas?"

"I'm here because I woke up inside a box which was creepy as shuck, and wasn't precisely embraced with enthusiasm by the around 60 guys who live in the also creepy as shuck place to which I arrived. The only thing I remember is my name, and even that took a few minuts for me to figure it out. So excuse me, oh sir, if I don't know why am I here!"

Newt's expression turned even colder. "I'll tell ya something, Greenbean. Ya may not know who ya're, but I've—" A muffled scream emerged from the depths of his throat, and cut the sentence off. He closed his eyes, his face twisted into a mask of pure suffering, his knuckles fully white as he clenched the bed's sheets. _Are we always going to end our discussions like this?,_ Thomas quietly asked himself. Not Thomas, though. Just a 3% of Thomas' mind.

The other 97% was collapsing with worry. Whatever Newt's pain was, it wasn't easy to handle. The boy fell to his knees, besides the other, and reached out for his left hand, which had been sinking its fingers into his thigh. Newt quickly took the hand that was being offered to him, with a quick, harsh movement, and squeezed it so tight that Thomas' bones menaced to crack like twigs. He forced himself not to let out a single sound. The last thing Newt needed was to know that he was hurting him; he was under enough pain already. In this way, he was at least sharing a part of his burden.

 

They remained still for what seemed to be ages, but was actually no more than a couple of minutes. The only sounds that filled the air were some vague noises from the other Gladers and occasional pantings from the injured boy. Thomas' position wasn't what you would call a comfortable one, but he eventually got used to it; he even came to a point that he didn't feel the small rocks under his knees, scratching his skin and piercing through it.

"Ya... Bloody shank," Newt murmured, finally opening his hand and letting go. None of them moved theirs, though. "Didn't have to. Ya jacked, Greenie. I'm tellin' ya."

"Thank you," Thomas said. He had some witty retorts in mind, but didn't feel like spitting them. After holding hands for around a quarter of hour, it no longer seemed like a brilliant idea, but the opposite. "Are you okay now?"

"Had better times. Will survive, though." He seemed to hesitate, and even half opened his mouth, but closed it again shortly after.

"Surviving's not enough. Being alright's the point, you know. Are you so?"

Newt snorted, even though there was no offence meant in that now. "Yes, Greenie, I'm bloody perfect. Now stop bein' a shuckin' mother hen, will ya?" Thomas rolled his eyes, but couldn't help a tiny smile. He could actually imagine the boy all feathered, with a red crest and a short beak, but preserving his blond curls. That mental picture made him release an almost hysterical guffaw. "Ya're jacked, I swear."

"I just... Nevermind," Thomas said, shaking his head to calm down. "What... what did you see, that made you turn away from me like that? You behaved like a model jerk. Just so you know it."

That silence, again. Had he made the wrong question? He bet. His stomach got violently contracted, and felt as if it was being pulled it towards the very center of the Earth. His whole nervous system seemed to freeze, like a PC that has too many proccesses going on and crashes.

Among the wave of angst, a sudden current of warmth made its way, and defroze him. He looked down, and noticed that Newt's thumb was rubbing the back of his hand slightly, barely moving, as if it didn't want to be detected. That simple gesture seemed to awake a thousand Grievers in his stomach.

"Thanks, Greenie. That was real poetry. Now. Where were we. The girl. Ben." Newt nodded to himself, without stopping his caress. He stared nowhere, half absent. "First. She ain't dead, but sort of comatose. And no, bloody hell, we don't think ya killed her. Second. Ben. He was stung by Grievers, lost his nerve, lost his mind, lost his sanity. Wasn't himself anymore. Ya not guilty of anything, so don't let it get to ya. Then. My hobble. Ya don't need to come runnin' to save me whenever it hurts a bit."

"A bit?" Thomas skeptically repeated. "Those sheets don't think the same thing."

"Who cares about the sheets."

"I do. It means that you're hurt. I don't want that."

Both of them opened their eyes wide, Thomas in realisation, Newt in amazement. Dense silence filled the room like a thick syrup, and they didn't move, nor talk. They just looked to each other.

Something had obviously changed between them. One couldn't say if it had been after the limp, or after the vision, or even after Ben's attack. One couldn't even make out that change, especially if they weren't Newt or Thomas. But the non-stopping stroke, or the gleam in their eyes, or even they way they breathed, relaxed even though one of them had endured a killer pain, did hint that, between the boys, things weren't the same. And would never be again.

"Thomas," Newt whispered, as if he feared shattering the moment. "I... I saw you."

"And what else? What did I do? What was my...?"

"Thomas," he interrupted him, with a quiet voice. "You sent me here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Two updates in a row -I'm on fire!) Cliffhanger! Come on, we all missed them. At least, I did. And you have some Newtmas fluff in this chapter, so no complaints! :3) As usual, hope you're liking this story so far! Thanks to all of you who always read; and for those who leave kudos and even comment, thanks isn't enough. You guys own a part of my soul. Sell it to the Devil, save it, whatever you want. You're amazeballs.


	7. Tommy (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas can't help wondering if he's responsible for the Gladers' situation. And that's not the only thing he battles with -the Glade has proved itself exhausting.

"I... I what? There's no way I... I just... can't..." Thomas mumbled. Every sentence he tried to come up with died in his lips, as he remembered something Newt had told him hours ago. _Could've been siblings and we wouldn't know._ Could've sent him there and wouldn't know, as well.

Without another word, the blond nodded. He lowered his gaze; only after, seconds before falling asleep, would Thomas realize that he had been staring at their hands. He fell backwards, slightly bouncing on a bed, and intertwined his fingers, which felt suddenly cold without Newt's touch.

"You... I remember..." this one mumbled. "You didn't say a thing, but I knew you knew I was gonna be sent 'ere. In the vision, I just knew it. Ya looked like a sissy, honestly." The last sentence tried to sound playful, but couldn't hide the boy's preoccupation. "Look, if you... I don't really think ya sent me here, Greenie. You just had to give me the bad news."

"Yes, but... Why was I in charge of doing so? Did I work for the people who put us here?"

Newt's expression saddened. "I'm afraid I can't answer that."

A slow, dark sensation lazily filled Thomas up. It departed from his tiptoes, and slowly took over him. He _might be_ responsible for putting the Gladers there. Of taking their lives away, and replacing them for these few acres surrounded by hundreds of walls. Of making them miserable.

 

It was already dark when they left the infirmary. Newt's leg was numb enough to walk to his bed, and Thomas' inner anguish had retired after an hour of calm talk. About the girl. About her note. About the Glade. About who kept which job. About the Maze. About everything. Thomas felt like he knew Newt a lot better now; from his accent to his way of thinking, a lot of what made him be that way was now familiar to him.

"I've made it," the boy realized, opening his eyes widely. He stopped dead, and Newt, who had walked beside him, collided with him.

"Almost throwing me to the bloody floor? Yeah, ya did."

"I've survived a day in the Glade." _Barely,_ he wanted to add.

"Oh. Well, congrats and all that. Guess." Newt pretended to pat him on one shoulder, and then sunk his hands into his pockets. "Though it hasn't been the easiest first day ever. Ya went through the buggin' ringer." Needñes to say; he felt exactly that way.

Whenever he closed his eyes, he could see Ben's face, his dark veins climbing up his neck and stretching across his face. When he opened them, the shadows looked as if they were hiding the sick boy, sheltering him until he attacked again. However his eyes were, the ripping sound of the arrow slamming into the ill's cheek echoed in his ears, over and over again. Vomit seemed to constantly go up his throat. He felt terribly weak, defenseless, vulnerable; he would never forget the graveyard scene.

As he lay in his hammock, looking at the stars, the whole sequence repeated in front of his eyes. Ben's black gaze seemed to pierce through him, and his cries chased him in his sleep. He tossed and turned all night long, unable to dream of anything that weren't that evening's events. There was only one thing that competed with Deadheads' scene: another pair of eyes, these ones being brown.

 

 _Exhausted_ was a mere euphemism for Thomas' general state the morning after. It was Chuck who had practically dragged him around: out of the hammock, to the showers, to the dressing rooms. The kid had even had to shout at him. Hadn't he screamed "WAKE UP, SHUCK-FACE!", Thomas would've fallen asleep in the showers, and most probably ridiculously died due to a slip.

He now stood in front of the barn with Newt, who had practically slapped him awake. The eyes that had chased him in dreams were now in front of him, and Thomas didn't know whether to freak out or not, having dreamt of the boy's eyes all night long. His brain was too tired to decide. He just wanted to throw himself in a sleeping bag and just sleep until the two weeks of trying all jobs ended. Maybe if he fled to Deadheads... Not there. That place gave him the creeps. But the riverbend wasn't bad at all...

"Tommy, are you even listening to me?"

Thomas snapped out of his trance, and looked at Newt, who was shaking a hand in front of him. He noticed, feeling a warm rush in his cheeks, that he had called him Tommy. Though it would've sounded childish coming from anyone else, it sounded right when coming out of Newt's lips. He could've swore that it was almost melodic, with the boy's British accent decorating every sound.

"Erm. Yes?" he offered, with what was a failed attempt of a smile. Newt shook his head.

"Can't blame ya there. Probably think I'm a slinthead shank for makin' ya work your ass out after yesterday's events."

"No, no, I... It's actually better. Anything to get my mind off them."

The Glade's second-in-command gave him a crooked smile. A blond curl fell slightly off its place, getting all over his forehead; as he combed it back to its place with his fingers, Thomas distractedly acknowledged how badly his left hand wanted to be the one to do that. He had to actually resist to that foreign urge, which seemed to have seized his arm.

 _Lack of sleep makes you hallucinate_ , he scowled at himself. _Cut it off!_

 

Apparently not noticing the debate going on inside Thomas' head, Newt took him to the barn, where an acne-covered, short boy, called Winston, made him a Tour of his own. The first hour, when he was shown around, wasn't that bad, actually, and the second one, in which he mainly fed animals, cleaned and scratched some klunk, was just a bit boring. But the third one, when Winston made him watch as he quartered a pig up for lunch, made him decide which Glader job he was  _not_ choosing.

Luckily for him, Winston seemed to be fine on his own, as he let him go after the disgusting spectacle. Some time to relax was all Thomas needed, and maybe to have a really quick nap. He headed towards the East Door, where no one was hanging around; he was just passing the Box when something bolted into the Glade through the West Door, to his left.

The Asian boy, whom he vaguely remembered from the moment he got out of that rusty elevator he had just walked past, was as red as various tomatoes, puffing and panting as if he had just run a marathon, his skin shining like myriads of small, sparkling diamonds. Thomas didn't have time to react before he collapsed to the ground, like a puppet whose threads have been cut.

No time to react before, and no capacity whatsoever of doing so after. What had just happened to the boy? Judging by the few times he had seen the Runners in action, Thomas thought that this one was pretty early that day. Was something wrong with him? Had he been... Stung?

_Was he dead?  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I can't thank you enough for your kudos, comments and overall support! 357 hits!? I thought I'd get about... 1 (and that it would be mine) and look at the number! THIS IS CRAZY! I hope you're enjoying the story <3


	8. Who the shuck are you? (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boy turns out to be alive and the Keeper of the Runners, Minho. What's more, he's found a dead Griever -something unseen before. Though something ruins the good news; Ben isn't dead, and his destiny will be something that sounds a thousand times worse than death. Something called Banishing.

"Alby! Newt! Someone go find them!" he shouted, kneeling down beside the boy. Thomas'd been wrong; he was still breathing and conscious, though he had never seen someone so exhausted before.

"I'm... Fine," he said, panting, "but who the shuck are you?"

Realizing that the runners spent the whole day in the Maze, Thomas supposed that he hadn't witnessed any of the recent events. "I'm new," he explained. Would he know about the girl? Well, it had been a great deal for the Gladers; someone had for sure told him. "I'm Thomas."

"Oh, yeah, sure. Newt told me. Thomas. The Greenie. You and the girl."

Alby approached them, showing deep furrows between his eyebrows. It didn't seem like it was a good day for him; it was more as if he had been in the middle of an important thing and someone had interrupted him. "You already back, Minho? What the shuck happened?" When Minho didn't answer, he kicked him on his side. "What happened?"

"I can barely talk, shuck-face! Get me some water!" Minho shouted. Before getting away, Alby made sure that Thomas knew that, did he ever dare to talk to him like that, he would be thrown off the Cliff. _Friendly_ and _warm_ were, apparently, unknown words to the Gladers.

"He lets you boss him around?" Thomas asked Minho. The other shrugged, and wiped away some sweat off his forehead.

"You scared of that pip-squeak? Dude, you got a lot to learn. Freakin' Newbies."

The only thing Thomas cleared up talking to Minho was that it was _extremely_ hard to know whether he was joking or not. Sarcasm wasn't something the boy was afraid of; in fact, he used it the way a musician uses their guitar or their voice. His black hair stuck to his forehead, and his pale cheeks were bright red; yet he managed to have even more authority in that way.

After some trivial blabber about the girl and being a newbie, during which Thomas quickly learned to never let Minho intimidate him if he wanted to preserve some dignity, the unavoidable question was asked. "So, did you find anything today?"

The boy opened his eyes, and looked at Thomas. "You know what, Greenie? That's usually the dumbest shuck-faced thing you could ask a Runner."He closed his eyes again. "But not today."

"What's it?"

"Just wait till the fancy admiral gets back. I don't like saying stuff twice," Minho said, using the title he'd just given Alby. He didn't even want to say the reason why he was so tired, even though he agreed to negotiate with the Glade's leader so that Thomas could hear everything he had to say. And the waiting was definitely worth it.

Minho had found a dead Griever.

 

Had anyone asked him how did he think the Gladers felt about him, Thomas would've said that they didn't trust him, not a single bit. Well, maybe Chuck and Newt did, but he was the first one's only friend, and the second... He was a special case. But the rest? Alby was the first one to think that he had something to do with the girl, the Griever and the creators' note. And he didn't have any problem letting him know.

Feeling as if a truck had run over him, Thomas found an enormous tree in Deadheads, a beautiful one which gave an impressive shadow. Even though the green foliage still gave him the creeps, he didn't have any other option to have some sleep. Someone could see him in the Homestead, and he wasn't precisely willing to get back with Winston. He was about to fall asleep when Chuck's voice shattered the moment.

"Thomas! Thomas!" he shouted, running towards him. Thomas rubbed his eyes, annoyed. Was it that hard to just let him have a half an hour nap? Apparently, it was. "Ben... Ben... isn't... dead."

Every single cell in Thomas' body ditched exhaustion. His fingertips tickled, and his face felt as if it had been stuck in a freezer for a long time. _What?_ He turned around to face the forest in which the sick boy had attacked him last night. "You've got to be kidding. I... I saw..."

"Well, I did, too. He's locked in the Slammer."

"The Slammer? What's that?"

"Our kind of jail. It's on the north side of the Homestead. They threw him in it so fast, that the Med-jacks had to patch him up there."

Thomas rubbed his eyes. Was he supposed to feel relieved, because the boy wasn't dead? Or menaced, because the guy who had tried to kill him was still alive? He dug his nails into the ground, which was cool and muddy. "And what are they going to do with him?"

"He's being Banished. Tonight, for trying to kill you." Another unknown word; but this one sounded darker than any other he had heard there. It felt as if it had a special weight, a special cadence; there was _something_ in the way Chuck said it that made him feel cold inside.

"Banished? What does that mean?" It couldn't be good, not if Chuck seemed to think that it was worse than death. But then, he saw what maybe was the most disturbing thing he had seen ever since he arrived to the Glade. Chuck didn't answer, but instead smiled. And then he turned and ran away, maybe to tell someone else about the news.

 

"Hey, Greenie. Gotta come with me." Newt pretended to knock on the tree bark, and Thomas lifted his gaze. He hadn't been able to move ever since Chuck told him about Ben. He'd been thinking about it, about the boy, about the attack, and shivering every time he remembered it. Those feverish eyes seemed to chase him, and he'd been unable to stop turning around, feeling as if Ben was about to jump onto him again.

"What's it?" he asked, accepting Newt's hand and getting up. He couldn't stop trembling, though. The memories were too recent, too real.

"Could ask the same thing. Ya freezin'?" Newt passed an arm around Thomas' shoulders, rubbing his upper one.

Even though his nerve endings sparked all through his body because of that touch, Thomas couldn't shake away the cold feeling inside his chest. It was as if Ben was sitting on it, and who knew if that metaphor could ever become real. "Ben... Isn't dead, is he?"

Newt's face seemed to darken. "Who told you that?" Judging by his tone, he was more than willing to beat up whoever had done so.

Even though he wasn't sure whether he deserved it or not, Thomas decided to protect Chuck, and tried to shrug, miserably failing. "I just heard some guys talking about it."

"I see." Newt didn't look convinced at all, but didn't insist. "Well, Tommy, they were right. Even though Alby's accuracy's enviable, he managed to leave the shank alive. He's gonna be Banished as soon as I get back to the doors, actually."

"What's that Banishment thing?" It sounded wronger every time someone said it.

"It's..." Newt hesitated, and then offered a melancholic smile, his eyebrows almost touching. "YOU'll see it soon, Tommy. I must warn ya, though. I already told you that death's not our favoUrite, but I told you as well that we ain't losin' ya."

And, with those words, Newt confirmed what Thomas had suspected: if Ben wasn't dead, he'd be so in no time. And it wouldn't be an unpainful death.

"Come on, Greenie. We gotta be there. We already late." Newt patted his shoulder once more, and pulled the arm he'd been rubbing as he walked towards the Glade.

As they approached the place where the Banishing was going to take place, right in front of the titanic, still open doors, Thomas saw that every single Glader was there, looking at them as if they were delaying something. Well, Newt had said that they actually were.

Ben was crunched on the floor, his body tattooed with the dark veins, which now were almost black, as if they were actual ink drawings. His skin was paler than any other skin Thomas had ever seen, whiter than chalk, and his hair glowed, dirty and messy. Looking at him, one could've said that an earthquake was taking place inside of his body: the boy shook so much that he was a bit blurry.

"Newt. Bring out the Pole," Alby ordered as soon as they stepped into the crowd. Newt nodded, and moved towards a small tool shed. The rest of the boys made room for him, and just stayed there. No one talked, no one looked to Ben. Everyone fixed their gazes on the floor, or on a tree, but never on their former partner. Their faces were somehow subdued; they were the kind of faces you found in a funeral.

Newt was holding several aluminum poles when he went back, which were maybe twenty feet long. He attached something to one of their ends, and dragged it to the center of the circle. Finally, he stepped up to Alby and handed over the pole.

Thomas could see the strange thing now. A loop of rigid leather had been attached onto the metal with a massive staple. A large button showed that the loop could be opened and closed, and its purpose became obvious.

 

It was a collar.


	9. You've been strong for too long (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas seems to be bound to disgrace. He has way too much on his plate, and just isn't able to hold it together anymore. Can anyone recomfort this broken boy?

Ben's Banishment wasn't a pleasant spectacle, and would unfortunately stay with Thomas for the rest of his days. Beside him, Chuck let out squeals of excitement, as if he were watching some interesting film, and wouldn't stop looking. Thomas, on the other hand, made the hardest of efforts not to look, or, at least, not to stare.  


The sick boy's feverish eyes gleamed as he was dragged to the center of the circle, and his thick, dark veins palpitated, as if his fear were running through them. He wouldn't stop pleading for understanding, for another chance; Thomas had to resist the urge to cover his ears and run away as fast as his legs let him. As the Keepers closed the collars around his neck, wind blew, messing the Gladers' hair smoothly, like a mother who comforts her children after a fall.

"I swear I'll do anything! I swear I'll never do it again! Plllleeeaseeee!" Ben's cries wouldn't stop, and everyone jerked their heads away.

Unable to keep on watching the grotesque spectacle, Thomas looked away when they started pushing him into the Maze, further and further away from the place that had been his only home. Ben's begs intensified, but were useless; when the doors began closing, the boys held the poles still, keeping him from running back into the Glade. When there were barely some inches left before the titanic slabs finally met, they all pulsed a button, which released the collar, and left Ben out there, sick and alone.

Thomas closed his eyes, the final blow to his sanity having been given with the sound of the doors closing; and he was surprised to feel something warm running down his cheeks.

 

Rumours didn't take long to come. While the crowd dispersed, everyone hissed and whispered to whoever was immediately beside them. The quiet atmosphere that had ruled vanished, and gave rise to a thick, foul air, even though they were out in the open. Ben's Banishment hadn't only left him out; it had also left out complicity and spirits. _It must be hard,_ Thomas thought, _to live with someone for months and suddenly see him being exiled to the Maze_. Out there, alone in the darkness, the only company being the infamous beasts known as Grievers.

As if one of them had read his mind, a distant distorted roar echoed through the Glade. Imagining the monster getting any close to Ben made Thomas sweat with fear. Ben was sick. He had been stung. He needed help, he deserved attention, and he definitely wouldn't get those from a Griever. The beast would kill him, and Thomas would then have to carry that burden with him for the rest of his life. Because Ben was there for attacking him. Not anyone. Him.

_"We ain't losing ya."_

_And instead, you're losing Ben._

Over and over, those same thoughts repeated in Thomas' mind, the Banished Glader's dark eyes chasing him as he remembered his shaky voice, his dirty hands together begging another chance, tears rolling down his cheeks. Like a vicious circle, the more he tried to avoid those images, the stronger they impacted on him; it wasn't long until he finally gave up.

Clenching his fists, his hamstrings tensed, and started running so fast that he felt as if he were flying. The grass was slippy under his feet, though he had no problem using the small trips to accelerate even more. Steps weren't hard to take, and all he could think of was escaping from the memories, from the voices. From himself.

 

Had you asked him, he wouldn't have been able to tell when did he get to the riverbend. He crouched over, his knees against his chest, his crossed arms hiding his face, and let his mind break loose. Everything, _everything_ seemed to hit him with all it had. Ben's black eyes shining. Ben's weight over him. Ben's strangely warm skin as he tried to strangle him. Ben's fists trying to punch him. Ben's voice insisting that he was bad. Ben's veins stretching through his body like an intrincated tribal tattoo. Ben's cries during the Banishing. Ben, Ben, Ben.

He held his head as hot, crystal tears fell, soaking his trousers. He squeezed his hair, biting his lip as hard as to make it bleed, and closed his eyes, his eyebrows sinking into his nose bridge. His whole body hurt, especially his forehead, which felt as if someone was pressing hard against it. He just couldn't handle the Glade anymore. He couldn't.

"Shhh, Greenie, calm down. Shhh," Newt whispered in Thomas' ear, his warm breath tickling. He gently tightened his arms around him, and softly caressed his hair the way you would to calm down a scared animal. Thomas hadn't even heard him arrive, nor felt his touch; he had only noticed his presence after hearing his voice. "It's okay. You've been strong for too long. Everyone has some mental breakdown 'ere. Not even Alby managed to hold it together when we arrived."

Thomas didn't need to ask to know that the "we" referred to the first Gladers. He couldn't have spoken a word, anyway. It was as if his vocal chords had been cut, or even hadn't existed at all.

"I've seen many Greenies, ya know, and trust me, there's no human who's able to just accept this. It's imposible to handle everythin', even if ya're a bloody stubborn who insists on doing so. So don't hold back. Let go."

Something clicked in Thomas' mind when he was given permission to stop pretending that everything was alright. And so he did. He looked into Newt's eyes and — _saw himself reflected in his eyes, in the lab again, crying as well, his face bright red._ The vision lasted for no longer than a second, but there it was. He got the message. He didn't need to pretend to be strong with Newt. And so, he stopped doing so.

Newt would occasionally rub his head, or tell him that it was okay, but they mostly remained quiet as the boy cried. Every tear meant something. Coming out of the Box. The first day. The confussion. Gally's hatred. The Griever. The House of Blood. The attack. The girl. The note. The suspicions. It all came out, flooding Thomas' eyes and soaking Newt's shoulder. A small part of Thomas' mind vaguely wondered whether his limp would hurt from his bent position, but the boy didn't seem to care. He just stayed there, and helped him pull his world together again.

 

When Thomas finally calmed down, the sky was almost black, and little light from the stars silhouetted the trees around them. Feeling relieved, Thomas suddenly realized, ashamed, that he had run away and shortly after been huged for what had seemed to be ages by Newt. _Did you want to be discreet? Here you are._ He squeezed his T-shirt, playing with the elastic fabric. He felt like such a crybaby.

"Thank you," he finally said, with a hoarse voice. He cleared his throat, which felt sore. "For... for everything, actually."

"Welcome, Greenie. Don't have to thank me. It's part of my job, you know. Takin' care of the boys who live in this bloody outdoor prison." Newt nodded, though, accepting the grattitude. "I was serious. Not even Alby couldn't stand this for too long. Not Alby, not Minho, not Gally, not me, not anyone. Ya took your time, actually. Never seen someone face this many events and resist for this long."

Thomas looked at him sideways, and then his eyes went back to the floor. "I... It's just..." He had trouble finding the words he needed. "Ben wasn't a bad person. I know he wasn't."

Newt let out a sigh, which made him sound exhausted. Under the pale moonlight, which barely managed to get through the foliage, he seemed to be even more fragile than whenever he had an attack or made hard decisions. "No, Greenie. He was actually a good one. Had guts, was a wit —we'll all miss him. Ya may have seen the shucked-up version, but havin' seen him on his good days and then like that —that's what's a real klunk."

They remained quiet for a while, but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence; it was the kind of silence that's just necessary.

"What... What'll happen to him out there?"

"He's at the mercy of the Grievers. Only the morning'll tell. But, to tell ya the truth, he won't come back —they never do. I've seen three Banishments, and they were all a hell of a klunk. They never come back. Never. If there's something that the Maze does well, that's followin' its own rules. And the most important is that no one, _no one survives a night in the Maze._ "

 

After a while, the boys returned to the Homestead and, uncomfortably indecisive about whether they should exchange some goodnights, they finally said so with both their gazes fixed on the concrete. They ended up laughing at the stupid situation, and Newt even gave Thomas a mock hug. "Good night, my son," he teased, "dream with the angels and have wonderful dreams, sweetheart." Even though he still felt some creeps running up and down his spine, Thomas managed to break a smile, and hugged his "mother" back.

As he lied in his sleeping bag, his whole body tickled from the contact; he was definitely going nuts. _This is a signal of that I'm finally going mad,_ he thought. _Great._ He curled up, feeling his body warm up thanks to the bag, and let his eyes wander around the Glade. He couldn't stop playing the evening's events in his mind, and he felt his face stretch into a stupid smile whenever he remembered how Newt had helped him, and that he wasn't all alone, after all. The Banishment cut off that smile, though, bringing worry back to him. But, as the scenes filed by in his head and his heart jumped from one mood to the other, one thing stayed in the exact same place all along. One sentence that, Thomas didn't know why, sounded threatening, even prophetic.

_No one survives a night in the Maze.  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I'm a bit late with the update, but I'm entering my exams week -surviving the Maze is easier than passing all the subjects with a good mark! I'll hopefully be able to update more regularly after this upcoming Friday. Good luck to everyone who's also studying hard!


	10. The most terrible choice (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems like Thomas is doomed to be sleepy as long as he's alive -he's having his tryday with the Trackhoes, even though what he really wants to be is a Runner. The boy can't stop reviving the Banishing, and soon more nightmares will add up to the list when Minho and Alby don't get back.

"Being ran over by a truck must feel far better than this," Thomas growled, stretching his arms over his head. He sighed, and looked around; the other Gladers were still asleep. It seemed like he was condemned to never get a good rest. "Good morning to you too, by the way."

Newt shrugged. "Seven o'clock, Greenie," he said, with a smile. "Gonna put ya with the Track-hoes today. See if that suits your fancy more than slicin' up bloody piggies and such."

Thomas arched an eyebrow, taking the hand that Newt was offering to him and standing up. "Aren't you supposed to stop calling me that?"

"What? Bloody piggy?" Newt frowned and tilted his head. His eyebrows drew a curve that was pretty much like a snake trying to contort the maximum times possible.

"No." Thomas shook his head. It felt as if it were an engine that hadn't been greased yet. His thoughts were slow, and it took a big effort to try to speed them up a bit. He glanced around, regarding the trees and the huge doors, as he tried to get his brain to work. Shivers ran down his spine when he saw the walls of the Maze. Last night's events were still fresh in his memory. He shook his head again, and focused on what he wanted to say. "Greenie. I'm technically not the newest guy around —the comatose girl is."

He thought of her, and he felt his heart sink in his chest. She awoke in him confuse feelings; he felt dizzy whenever he looked at her, and he longed to hold her hand until she recovered. His fingers itched with the mere thought of it. It was now almost obvious that he _did_ have something to do with the girl —the thing was, _what?_

Unaware of what was happening in Thomas' head, Newt let out a quick laugh. "Ya grew some right nice-sized eggs over night, now didn't ya?"

Ignoring that question, Thomas moved on. He had to find something to do that day, something that kept him from thinking. _Find something, Thomas. Find it._ "What's the Track-hoes?"

"They're the guys that work in the garden, tillin', weedin', plantin'. Those things. Don't worry, ya'll see it soon."

A roar that sounded like a lion's roar cut him off as the Maze opened for them. Thomas' gaze quickly got there, secretly expecting to see Ben alive. But he instead found Minho, who was stretching. The boy walked over, and picked up something. He threw it to the other Runners, who put it back in the tool shed near the Gardens. Its metallic shine was unmistakable. It was the section of the pole with the leather collar.

Thomas put both hands on his knees, bending over, and fixed his eyes in the cracked concrete of the Homestead, trying his best not to throw up. The Banishing seemed to happen again in front of him, and he could picture every detail —specially the most terrible ones. Ben's gaze, full of fear. Thomas closed his eyes, feeling a lump in his throat, and his pulse grew more and more irregular. _Come on. Don't lose it. You can do this. Don't lose it, Thomas. Don't lose it._  


"Only seen three Banishments, Tommy. All as nasty as the one you peeped on last night. But every buggin' time, the Grievers leave the collar on our doorstep. Gives me the willies like nothin' else." Newt put a hand on his shouder. Thomas didn't open his eyes, nor change his position. He just stood there, breathing in and out, until the world slowly calmed down.

"So. Tell me about the Runners," Thomas said, all of a sudden. He could almost sense Newt frowning.

"The Runners? Why?" There it was.

"Just wondering."

Newt didn't answer immediately, leaving enough silence to remark his silent suspicions. "Best of the best, those guys. Have to be."

"And then, why aren't you one?"

Oooops.

Thomas opened one eye as a voice inside his head sung, _you've royally screwed up._ Newt's gaze returned to him, cold but, at the same time, curious. His mouth didn't smile, nor did his eyes; yet there was something in his relaxed way of standing that hinted a lack of true anger.

"I was 'till I hurt my leg. Hasn't been the bloody same since. Ya already know." Absently, he bent down and rubbed his right ankle. His face contorted with pain for a second. Something made Thomas think that the memories hurt more than the actual wound.

And he understood. Or, at least, he thought he understood. The body healed; but the mind, once hurt, never fully recovered. It was like glass: once broken, you couldn't restore it completely. And memories were the most dangerous cracks.  


Thomas avoided asking about the limp. Something in Newt's eyes pleaded him not to ask about the subject. And the boy had made so much for him ever since he arrived to the Glade, that he just couldn't go against that silent beg. He ended up telling Newt how hard he wanted to be a Runner.

"It's like... There's something in my gut that tells me I'm here to be one. I can't pull weeds all day —I'll go nuts.  I need to go out there and run."

"Go around sayin' how good you're to be a peasant and what a good Runner you'll be and you'll make plenty of enemies," Newt warned him. "Let's make a deal. Keep your hole shut, do what you're told, and I'll put you on the list of potential trainees as soon as you show some clouth. But say one word, just one bloody word, and I'll make sure you never put a foot out there. Got it?"

Thomas wanted to argue. Something inside of him practically screamed at him that he was there to solve the Maze —but he didn't say a thing. He instead shaked hands with Newt, closing the deal. They held each other's for a second longer than strictly necessary before letting go.

Maybe he wasn't getting to be a Runner that day. But Thomas carefully rubbed his hand as he followed Newt, who was rambling about Frypan's food, and had to recognize that things weren't that bad. They were actually starting to be pretty good.  


During the day, as he tilled and planted some seeds, Thomas realized that he hadn't seen Alby around. Weird. He asked Zart, the Keeper of the Track-hoes, but he didn't know, either. It was strange, very strange. Without the leader to howl orders around, the Glade was strangely quiet.  


After hours of hard work, he went with Chuck to eat something. Newt was there, too, but sat alone, ignoring everybody. His eyes were bloodshot, his forehead crossed by pronounced wrinkles. Thomas watched as Newt chewed his fingernails, something he hadn't seen the older boy do before.

Chuck noticed as well. "What's wrong with him?" the boy whispered. "Looks like you did when you popped out of the Box."

"I don't know," Thomas replied. "Why don't you go ask him?" He bit his lower lip, though; Newt's horrible aspect worried him. He didn't know what happened to him, but he seemed to be far beyond worried. It was as though he had been told that he would have to marry a Griever. Thomas felt an urge to sit besides him, tell him that everything would be okay and hug him, but he wasn't sure whether the boy would kill him or not.

"I can hear every bloody word you guys are saying," Newt called in a loud voice, interrupting his trail of thoughts. "No wonder people hate sleepin' next to you shanks."

Thomas felt like he had been caught stealing, but he was genuinely concerned—Newt was one of the few people in the Glade he actually liked. Actually, _actually liked._ The need to comfort him sharpened. Before knowing what he was doing, he stood up, not minding Chuck's questions, and sat down besides Newt, who passed a hand over his face. He looked as if he were about to throw up.

Passing an arm over his shoulders, Thomas pulled him closer, and felt Newt's head's weight falling onto his clavicle, behind his chin. _What an egoistic shuck I must be,_ he thought. The other boy was worried as hell, and yet there he was, feeling euphoric due to the hug.

He lowered his gaze to look at Newt's face, and everything suddenly made sense. "Everything'll be okay," he whispered, gently rubbing Newt's arm. "They'll make it back. Don't worry."

When he said those words, he meant them, and he wanted to believe them. But Newt's silence made them sound weak, and even Thomas himself wondered whether Alby and Minho, the boys who had gotten into the Maze with the very sunrise, would really get back to the Glade.  


"There they are!" Chuck shouted. Everyone stood on tiptoes, stretching their necks like turtles, trying to catch a glimpse of the boys. After the rumble of the doors, they had lost their hope; but two blurry figures, which at first Thomas had feared could be a Griever, now stumbled along the alley towards the door. There they were: Minho had one of Alby's arms draped across his shoulders, practically dragging him along. Everyone started cheering, hope finally resurging after hours of dark desperation.

All the Gladers had gotten to the doors half an hour before they started closing. _Why can't we go search for them?,_ Thomas had asked Newt. The boy had jerked his head up, his eyes wide open, his skin three tones paler, his cheeks sallow. And then, Thomas had gotten another piece of the Newt puzzle. His greatest fear. Newt was afraid to death of the Maze.

He had after explained, his voice a bit shaky, that it was completely forbidden to send groups into the Maze to look for anyone. "It would make the losses rocket up," he had said. He was still resting his head in the space below Thomas' chin, not moving an inch. "Either they make it, or they don't. We can't interfere." Those words had hung over them like a dark shadow during the day; but now, there was a chance that they could get back safe and sound. The doors were closing, and they would have to make the effort of their lives if they wanted to achieve it; but the thing was, they could do it.

"They got him!" Minho shouted, exhaustion strangling his voice. He hobbled, and every step seemed like the last.

"Newt!" Thomas cried after a momment of astonishment. "They're coming! I can see 'em!" He wanted to run into the Maze and help the boys, but the rule Newt had stated was very present in his mind. The Glade's second-in-command had made it back to the Homestead a couple seconds before, his face down, but he immediately spun around at Thomas' voice and ran back towards the Door.

He squeezed Thomas' hand when he got there, and they both looked into the Maze. A wave of dread hit them. Alby had fallen to the ground. Minho started to drag him by the arms, unable to get him back on his feet. But they were still a hundred feet away.

The right wall was closing fast, and the more Thomas begged it to slow down, the quicker it seemed to go. There were mere seconds left until it shut completely. They weren't going to make it. It was impossible.  


Thomas turned to look at Newt. A solitary tear had made its way down his cheek, and now hung from the tip of his chin. His heart squeezed at that sight, and seemed to skip a beat. A know formed in his throat. Something was breaking inside of him. He quickly peered at the closing wall, behind which the reason of Newt's anxiety was trying to reach the Glade. Only a few feet more and it'd be over. _Come on. Come on!_ Minho stumbled and fell. Time was up. They weren't going to make it.

He looked back to Newt, and saw another tear rolling. He chose.

Bending down a bit, he kissed Newt's chin as fast as lightning, taking the tear away, feeling its salty taste on his lips, and ran towards the doors. He heard Newt scream something from behind him. "Don't do it, Tommy! Don't you bloody do it!" But he didn't stop.

He moved forward, squeezing past the connecting rods at the last second, and stepped into the Maze.


	11. Don't stop moving (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The walls have closed, and now Thomas is trapped in the Maze together with Minho and a Stung Alby. They have a whole night ahead them; an exhausted Runner, a Greenie and an unconscious leader against the Maze and its horrors. Can they survive?

A second before the walls slammed shut, he caught a glimpse of Newt's eyes. The boy had ran after him, but his hobble significantly slowed him down. Something flashed in their minds—

 

"— _Everything'll be okay. Trust me on this. We'll make it," Thomas whispers in Newt's ear. They're both crying, and hugging so tight, holding each other with such strength, that breathing's difficult. But it doesn't matter, not if that means that they can be together again. Even if it's only for a few seconds. Even if it'll hurt more later. The only thing that matters now is them."_

 

The vision faded away, and Thomas heard the doors booming together, the sound echoing all around him, like a madman's laughter. He blinked, still feeling Newt's tear's salty taste in his lips. His hand opened and closed, missing the tight squeeze from just a second ago. He suddenly wished he was in the Glade again —but it was late. The doors had closed, and there was no going back.

He turned away from the doors, unable to continue watching them, and faced the Maze's darkness. A veil of darkness seemed to cover the sky; twilight had fallen. The giantic walls looked like enormous gravestones. Thomas wanted to hysterically laugh at that comparison. Gravestones. They were pretty appropiate for the situation.

Fear quickly filled him, the way water fills a tub. The consequences of what he had done seemed to fall heavily onto his shoulders, and he weakily wrapped his arms around his torso. It was pointless, though. He knew he wouldn't feel any better.

 

Alby's sharp cry broke through his shock, and got him back into reality. He turned around, and saw Minho, who had pulled himself up. Bruises and scratches covered his arms and face, and he had dry blood stuck to the skin, which had turned almost yellow. But that wasn't the worst part: it was his eyes. Thomas had only seen him once or twice, but the mischievous sparkle he remembered was completely gone. 

"Greenie," Minho said, "if you think that was brave comin' out here, listen up. You're the shuckiest shuck-faced shuck there ever was. You're as good as dead, just like us."

Thomas felt his face heat up. "Wow. Welcome. I couldn't leave you guys out here, you know?"

"And what use do you think you are out here?" Minho snorted, and then covered half of his face with a hand. "Whatever, dude. Break the Number One Rule, kill yourself, whatever." He shook his head, and his shoulders plummeted.

"Welcome," Thomas repeated. An urge to punch Minho in the face arose. "I was just trying to help."

"Great way to go. They'll have to dig three graves instead of two."

Before Thomas could retort anything, Alby whined again. Stopping the fight for the moment, both boys knelt down besides him.

The Glade's leader was in a terrible shape, and got worse and worse with every second. His usually dark skin was losing its colour quickly, and his whole body was doused in sweat, which made his wounds glow in a grotesque way. Maroon blood creeped across the Maze's dirty floor; some small plants, which had made their way through the concrete, showed now a mixture of green and dark red. Each quick, irregular breath threatened to be the last one.

"What happened?" Thomas asked, not knowing what to do. He rubbed his palms against his pants. He wanted to help Alby, God knew he did, but he didn't know what to do. His mind was completely blank, as if every single useful thought or idea had been sucked into a vacuum.

"Don't wanna talk about it," Minho said as he checked Alby's pulse. He bent over, and stuck an ear to his chest. "Let's just say the Grievers can play dead really well."

That statement surprised Thomas. "So he was... bitten? Stung, whatever? Is he going through the Changing?" He couldn't help remembering Ben's face, and a cold feeling crawled down his spine. He closed his eyes, feeling dizzy.

"You've got a lot to learn" was all Minho said.

The boy's personality had radically changed. Even his sarcasm had; everything he said now seemed to be some attempt at a macabre joke. Thomas realized that he had assumed they'd be dead in no more than an hour. The fact that they hadn't made it before the sunset seemed to be the reason why Minho thought they were dead: he wouldn't stop repeating it, once and twice and again and again.

Minho stood and grabbed Alby's arms, then nodded toward his feet. "Grab those smelly suckers. We gotta carry him over to the Door. Give 'em one body that's easy to find in the morning."

Thomas couldn't believe how morbid that statement was. "How can this be happening," he mumbled, his vision blurry. He was dangerously close to losing it. He couldn't decide whether to feel anger or pity for Minho —he was giving up too soon, to easily.

 

As they dragged Alby towards the Doors, Thomas allowed himself to close his eyes, and let a small fraction of reality hit him. They were alone in the Maze, at night. Their only company would be the Grievers, which weren't precisely the life of the party. He thought about Newt, as well. He had been miserable during the day, when there had been chances of Alby and Minho getting back. Imagining how he could be right then made him sick to his stomach. His already down-in-the-dumps spirits would sink even deeper, suffering beyond imaginable.

Biting his inner cheek, he allowed himself to shed a tear. Just one. And then made himself pull everything together and hold on. Every molecule in his body weighed tons, and all of his neurons were screaming at him that accepting death was the wisest thing to do —though he didn't want to. He didn't want to lose hope that easily. They could make it. They _would_ make it. He had to believe it. He had to believe in something. Anything. He had to make himself think that they'd get out —otherwise, he would have to sit and wait for death like a pathetic klunk. And he point-blank refused.

When it echoed in his ears, the small amount of courage he had gathered slipped away. It came from deep within the Maze, a metallic, low, haunting sound. It was like blades rubbing against each other, and it got closer and louder. A series of clicks joined. They reminded Thomas of rain splatting against glass. A hair-rising moan resounded in his ears, and then some kind of clanking of chains added to the already creepy melody. Had Thomas been asked to associate a sound with true terror, he would've chosen that one. No doubt.

As he listened to it, petrified, Minho stood. The almost-gone light prevented them from seeing each other; but when he spoke, Thomas imagined his face, white with panic. "We have to split up —it's our only chance," Minho stuttered. "Just keep moving. Don't stop moving!"

And, with those words, he turned and ran away, leaving Thomas alone with Alby and a new danger coming his way.

 

Pulling vines down, Thomas gritted his teeth, his arms aching due to the effort, his entire body begging him to get out of there. Alby's body swooned to the left, like a puppet whose strings have been cut; the boy continued pulling the long green ropes. The Griever's horrisone melody got closer and closer; though he absolutely wasn't going to flee before finishing. He felt his knees weaken when the clangs sounded as close as if they were being made right next to his ears, but didn't stop.

He had spotted some thick vines while trying to drag Alby towards the door, and had thought that it might do the trick. To make sure that it was worth the try, he had listened carefully to the boy's heartbeat; he was still alive. The Glade might not lose its leader yet. He hadn't even thought about it twice; it seemed too obvious that he just couldn't leave Alby on the floor to die. Though now, with the Grievers getting closer and closer, all he wanted to do was scaping.

With the corner of his eye, he perceived a change in luminity, or so he thought. He remembered the red lights he had seen with Newt a day or two ago. That was a signal of that the Grievers were close. They wouldn't take long. He redoubled his efforts, feeling his hands ache but never stopping.

At least, the Grievers were slow, giving him time. With the awful, awful sound getting closer and acting as background music, he compelled himself to continue working. Only when he had lifted Alby to a good thirty-feet height, he allowed himself to stop. Some ties and knots here and there, and then he got his hands off the vines. They hurt. His whole body did. He felt like falling to the floor and letting fate act.

A silver cilinder rushed below him, and attached to the wall, a few metres away. A red light flashed, and he unwillingly remembered Alby's  blood. But it was not blood. It was a beetle blade, which had "WICKED" written on it. Thomas shivered, and turned around, resting his cheek against the cool wall. Newt's weepy face flashed before his eyes, and he felt guilty for the boy's loss. He had probably just messed the whole thing up even more. He was a klunk of a friend. A real klunk.

Inhaling slowly, he turned his head to feel the coolness of the wall in the other cheek.  


And then he saw the Griever.


	12. They're all I have (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt has just lost the three people he relied the most on -how can he face it? Actually, can he face it?

Newt didn't remember much about his past life, but he knew that he hadn't been a religious person. Whenever he tried to piece together the few confusing memories he had, he ended up having the impression that he had been a pretty normal guy who didn't believe in God, or, at least, doubted He had some time for him. Yet there he was, in his room, knelt down and praying.

 

When Thomas started running towards the door, Newt felt something violent and intense. His whole body activated all the alarms, and started going crazy: his hand itched with Thomas' one's absence, his stomach seemed to plunk and his brain started to furiously pound, demanding that he went after the boy. And so he did. He ran as fast as he could, faster than he had ever run after his "accident". His bloody "accident".

The hobble slowed him down less than it used to, but the second of difference marked the difference. He reached the doors just in time to see them close and leave Thomas out. Newt carefully placed his hand on the cold stone, respectfully, as if he was touching a very antique and delicate relic; he then closed it in a fist, and hit as hard as he could. He bit his lip, blood dripping from his mouth, while he punched the Maze's doors; a cracking sound crossed the air, and his hand started hurting, too. It was a killer, beating ache, which felt almost like his leg had when he had had the accident; yet that didn't overpass his heart's pain, which was much worse. 

In less than a minute, the Glade had lost its leader, a Keeper and a Greenie. In less than a minute, Newt had lost his best friend, his colleague and a boy who was beginning to mean something for him.

It hurt so much that Newt pressed his chest with the broken hand, red and swollen, trying to calm himself. A dark hole had opened there, one that threatened to swallow every single good thing he had managed to do over the last two years. No Glader dared to speak. Not even a loud breath could be heard. Everyone just stood, silent; it felt as if the world had stopped.

Below his hand, his heart beat furiously. _Go after them, go after them, go after them;_ those words filled his veins and arteries now instead of blood. He took a deep, shaky breath, and closed his eyes for a moment, picking up the pieces of his sanity and trying to hold them together. He just had to bear it until he got to his room in the Homestead. Just for a short time.

He turned around, feeling the grass slippy under his shoes, and kept his gaze down, unable to act as the brave leader he should have been. The green carpet was all he looked at as he said, "Everyone, go back to your thing. Frypan, dinner's waitin'. The rest, fulfill your duties and then eat somethin'. I want everyone workin' now." _So that you don't just stay here and think about what's outside,_ he thought. He didn't say it out loud.

Without another word, he got past the Gladers, trying to deal with the pain that had begun to slowly take over him. It was physical too, now; his whole torso was about to explode. Newt vaguely wondered whether one could actually die from saddnes or not; his body was apparently willing to prove it.

 

Newt had never been much of a religious person, again, but when he stormed into his room and crumbled, he started praying for them. Surrounded by concrete walls and a small bed with rigid metal bars as the headboard, the boy sunk his knees on the floor, and tangled his fingers together. How did you start a prayer? He didn't know; he just went straight to the point. 

_Hey, God. Or shall I call you Lord? Nevermind. I just need you to do one thing, one single thing, for me. I just need you to keep an eye on Thomas, and to make sure that he comes back alive. That one thing, and we're even. I've always thought that, in case You existed, you would owe me one for lettin' the Creators puttin' me here. 'ts a very, very good moment to pay that debt. I need that shank alive. So please, don't let him die.  
_

Thomas' face appeared in Newt's mind, and shortly after, Minho's and Alby's. The pit in his stomach got worse, and he almost fainted. His whole body was reacting really bad to this issue. His hand hurt like hell, having been broken and forced, but it wasn't a big pain compared to the emotional one.

_Also, help Minho and Alby out. They're all I have. They're the ones who helped me get literally and metaphorically back on my feet. You can't just take them away. If you're as compassive and generous as everyone says, let them come back alive. Just give them another chance to live. They're all I have. They're all I have...  
_

Newt's eyes itched as he prayed, and he furiously rubbed them with his left arm. He wasn't the kind of guy who all of a sudden decided that he should pray to save his friends' lives; yet he was desperate enough to try. He closed his eyes and saw Thomas, his brown eyes as warm as usual, his ivory skin, his defiant ideas and revolutionary ways of thinking and working. He saw the fierty in his eyes whenever he defended his ideas. He saw his messy hair, messed up by the wind. He saw so many things.

 

And that's when he knew he would never be able to rest in peace if the boy didn't come back. He would never be able to deal with that. He just wouldn't.

 

He inhaled and exhaled, trying to calm himself down. It was a very serious statement; but he preferred to face _that_ issue than Tommy's death. And so he prayed to God. He prayed for a good hour, repeating his pleads over and over again, feeling his heart rip a little bit more whenever he thought that they may not get back. He prayed for Minho and Alby as well, begging to have his friends back. He prayed for the three of them, imploring that they survived.

 

That night, Newt didn't sleep quite well. It took a while for him to fall asleep, and whenever he managed to do so, he had hair-rising nightmares. Monstruous and colosal Grievers swarmed about, and there were dead bodies all over the Maze floor as he ran, trying to get away from the beasts and find his friends. And he looked at one of those bodies as he rushed past them, and saw that it was one of the boys who were lost in the Maze, and then a Griever captured him...

Sticky sweat covered his forehead every time he woke up, sheets wrapped around his legs and the pillow kicked to the corner of the room. He stopped getting up to pick it from the floor the third time. After the fifth nightmare, he gave up and walked to the small window which was embed in the left wall, close to a corner.

The sky was deep black when he looked at it, showing no signs of dawn. It must be closed night. Newt was sure that it was his imagination, but he would've sworn that, if he focused, he could hear the Grievers lurk around the Maze. This was the worse torture he could imagine. He just wanted it to end, he wanted it to end so badly...

When he got up for the sixth and last time, he had dark sleeping bags under his eyes, and his back ached from the awkward position he had slept in. As he rubbed one eye with his hurt hand, which looked even worse now, with his knucles covered of dry blood and swollen, he peered through the window, and saw that the Sun wouldn't take long to rise. He jumped into his shoes, and felt his heart racing as he thought of going to the doors.

The actual run should have exhausted him, having slept that bad and it being such an early hour so as to have the doors still closed, but it instead seemed to boost his hopes. "They will get back," he mumbled to himself. "They will."

Chuck, Gally and Frypan, along with a few of Gladers, joined him shortly after. Newt was sitting down on the floor, trying to calm down and ordering his thoughts. He didn't even notice their presence until Frypan patted him on the shoulder and said, "Hope's never lost, dude." _But I don't want no hope,_ Newt felt like screaming. _I want Thomas, Alby and Minho back._

When some shy rays of sunlight started splashing the wall, a huge rumble made the soil shake. _That's the signal,_ he told himself. _If they're here, we'll know. If they're not, we'll know as well._

With a shaky hand, Newt brushed off the dirt on his trousers' knees. The doors seemed to take ages to start moving, and they seemed to be deplaced inch by inch. Newt held his breath as they separated; and, when they finally allowed him to see something, he swallowed hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 750 hits and 40 kudos -¡Estoy flipando! Whoa! It's amazing! Thank you so much, guys! All this support means the world to me, I swear :) It's you who make me want to continue writing. I owe all of you a kiss, at least.


	13. Don't ya ever shuckin' bloody do that again (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A miracle has happened. Minho and Thomas have survived the Maze, and Alby pretty much has, too -is Newt taking it? Or does he feel contradictory things? Even though they have made possible the impossible, the two heroes are far from being well, and not only in physical terms...

The very least thing Thomas expected after surviving a night in the Maze was a punch right in the jaw. Yet there he was, rubbing his face, which hurt as hell, and wondering what on Earth had just gotten into Newt, who had jumped to his feet, run to him and hit him with all he had.

He had to admit, though never out loud, that, when Newt had started sprinting towards him, all the hours of running, hiding and fleeding from the Grievers had seemed to vanish. The whole world had seemed to vanish as the boy got closer and closer: Thomas had felt on cloud nine, there was no use denying it. Though the punch had been a pretty big passion killer.

"What the shuck?" he mumbled, feeling his blood rush to his cheek. It started heating up quickly, the way a fire devours a pile of wood. _One would expect a warmer welcome after surviving the Maze!,_ he wanted to shout; but he had no time to decide whether it was a good idea.

"Don't ya ever shuckin' bloody do that again, dumb shuck-face shank, ya heard me?" Newt hissed, his voice rasp, grabbing Thomas' T-shirt. Thomas nodded, feeling his blood drain from his face. Newt was a bit shorter than him, but he managed to be scarier than any Griever. His eyebrows frowned hard, and his eyes threw him a glance that wasn't cold —it was frostbiting.

When Newt let go, it took a while for him to realise that Chuck was in front of him, waving his hand and showing an enormous smile. "Thomas, Thomas! You're back!" the kid celebrated, hugging Thomas' waist. The older boy patted Chuck's head, feeling a sudden wave of tender taking over him; he would have liked those arms, though, to be someone else's. A certain someone's.

"Thanks for your attention, shucks," Minho panted. Sweat dropped off his chin, leaving a clean path on his dirty face.

"Holy klunk, Minho, how the shuck did you manage to survive?" Newt asked, frowning. He couldn't help a smile, though.

"Too awesome to die."

Newt looked as if he debated between laughing and killing Minho himself. The rest of the Gladers, who had just stared at them, lifted both eyebrows, and some went away chuckling.

"What happened? How in the bloody—"

"We'll tell you later," Thomas interrupted, gathering all his courage. The boy's word echoed in his mind, menacing, and he bit his inner cheek. "We have to save Alby."

Newt's face went white. "What do you mean? He's alive?"

"Just come here."

 

The boys walked down the Maze, Thomas with his head up, searching along the thick vines. He could perfectly feel Newt's stare in his nape, which gave him the creeps. What was he afraid of? He thought about it, but couldn't find a proper answer. The only thing he knew was that Newt's anger both scared and saddened him.

When he spotted Alby's body, hung by his arms and legs, he pointed up. He didn't feel relieved yet, though. The Glade's leader was there and in one piece, but he didn't move at all. The three of them remained silent; it was Newt who finally broke the silence. If he had seemed shocked when they came out of the Maze, he now looked bewildered.

"Is he... alive?"

 _Please let him be,_ Thomas thought. "I don't know. Was when I left him up there, at least," he said instead.

"When you left him..." Newt seemed to think about it, and then shook his head. "You and Minho get your butts inside, get yourselves checked by the Med-jacks. You look bloody awful. I want the whole story when they're done and you're rested up."

He fixed his gaze on Thomas when he said "you look bloody awful". Thomas wanted to wait and see if Alby was okay. And maybe to discuss one or two things with Newt. Or well, maybe to ask what had he done. Or even... maybe to apologize for frightening him to death getting into the Maze. Or just... He shook his head, interrupting the trail of thoughts that was dangerously turning into a concerned son's planification of an apology to his mother after breaking a window.

He opened his mouth to speak and ask for permission to stay, but Minho grabbed him by the arm and forced him to walk towards the Glade. "We need sleep. And bandages. Now."

Against his will, Thomas followed Minho, with a bitter taste in his mouth. Minho didn't understand the urge he felt to turn on his heels and explain everything to Newt, from what had made him get into the Maze to the kiss he had planted on his cheek. Actually —could he explain the kiss?

"Greenie, calm the shuck down. It's no time to play hero," Minho scowled him, sprinting up to grab his arm. They had stepped onto the Glade, and everyone was looking at them now. Thomas realised that he had quickened his pace until he had left the other boy behind. "You're in a black mood, the slintest slint-head could see that, but you're not the shucking Queen, so quit it."

Even though he felt more like getting back into the Maze and just running to focus on something that wasn't the mixture of emotions he felt in his stomach —and maybe, just _maybe_ crossing paths with Newt and then maybe, just _maybe_ talking to him—, he slowed down and walked besides Minho, who snorted.

"Good that." As they walked, everyone gawked at them. They all showed awe, as if the boys were ghosts strolling through a graveyard. The attention embarrassed Thomas, even though he knew that it was because they had done something that no one had.

He winked and almost stopped when he saw Gally, with his arms folded, but managed to keep moving. It took a huge amount of willpower, but he stared into Gally's eyes, never breaking eye contact as he walked. When he got to within five feet, the other's stare fell.

Even though he still felt miserable about Newt, that felt so good. _So_ good.

 

After that, the next minutes were a blur. A couple of Med-jacks escorted them into the Homestead, up the stairs, the comatose girl being fed in bed, into a room, into bed, food, water, bandages. Tiredness. Pain. Finally, Thomas was left alone, resting on the softest pillow he could recall. But, before drifting off to sleep, he couldn't keep his mind off two things. First, the word he saw written across the two beetle blades. WICKED.

Second, Newt's words.

 

Hours later —hours? Days? Weeks?—, he was shook off sleep. Thomas winked, disoriented, as the fuzz around him cleared into Chuck. He groaned. "Let me sleep, you shank."

"I thought you'd want to know," Chuck answered, with a huge smile. He lifted a chubby hand and pushed some brown locks aside. "He's alive. Alby's okay —the Serum worked."

Grogginess got washed away to be replaced with relief. Thomas was surprised by how happy the information made him. But then Chuck's next words made him reconsider.

"He just started the Changing."

And, as if conjured by the words, a dreadful scream emerged from a room down the hall.

 

Thomas wondered long about Alby —whether he was okay or not, and whether saving him had been the best option. Even though he was still alive thanks to the vines, the blood-chilling scream made him ask himself whether salvation would be worth the suffering. Maybe the Changing would kill Alby. Maybe it would make him go mad. Maybe he would survive it and manage to carry on. Maybe he wouldn't.

Twilight fell upon the Glade while its leader's screams continued to fill the air. Even after begging the Med-jacks to letting him go, Thomas couldn't escape from the horrisone cries. Sore, bandaged and bruised to the tip of his ears, he had gone back to the Homestead, unable to deal with Alby's wails of agony anymore. He had come across Newt downstairs, nerves gripping his stomach. Thomas had opened his mouth to ask, to solve things, but a polite request to see Alby had come out instead. It didn't feel like the right moment to talk about what haunted him. Newt had refused point-blank, though. "It'll only make it worse," he said.

Unable to speak, Thomas had nodded and exited the Homestead, feeling breathtakingly tired. It was a whole new dimension of exhaustion —he could feel every single muscle aching. Even though he had felt elated at first, the sensation had faded away quickly, leaving him alone with the pain. And the physical one wasn't the worst one. It was the emotional load. It was like receiving the diagnose of terminal cancer.

He clenched his fists, feeling his chest tight. How could anyone resist the Maze? How could anyone ever adapt to live like this? A scream struggled to rip his throat. He now understood more than ever the desperation the Gladers felt for finding their way out. It wasn't a mere matter of escaping. It was about revenge as well.

But... He headed down back to hopelessness. If Newt and the others hadn't been able to solve the Maze after two years, how could he expect to find a solution? Though the Gladers hadn't given up yet. And now he was one of them.

 _But this is my life now,_ he thought. _The giant Maze, the hideous Grievers, this desperation._ Alby's screams made it worse, and he squeezed his ears with his hands. The wails, his thoughts —his new reality was poisoning him.

 

Eventually, the day ended, and the sunset gave rise to the mechanic sound of the Doors closing for the night. Even though Thomas didn't remember his life before the Box —except for the visions—, he was completely positive he had gone through the worst twenty-four hours of his life.

Just after dark, Chuck brought him dinner and a big glass of water. "Thanks," Thomas said, feeling a warmth tender towards the kid in his stomach. He ate the beef and noodles as fast as his sore arms could move. "I so needed this," he murmured. He sipped half of his drink, and went back to the food. He had only realised his hunger after starting eating.

"You're disgusting when you eat," Chuck said, sitting on the bench next to him. "It's like watching a starving pig eat his own klunk."

"That's funny," Thomas said, his voice oozing sarcasm. "You should go entertain the Grievers —see if they laugh."

An expression of hurt and sadness flashed across Chuck's face, but vanished less than a second after. "That reminds me —you're the talk of the town."

Well. Surviving a night in the Maze was obviously going to catch everyone's attention. Thomas felt suddenly proud, even though the reminder of Alby's screams made him sick for feeling happy. Chuck talked him into telling how had he survived the Maze.

"What you did is freaking unbelievable. You and Minho, both."

"Then why do I feel so crappy, Chuck?" Thomas retorted, tossing the plate on the ground. "Wanna answer me that?"

Chuck clasped his hands and leaned forward on his knees, head hanging. Finally, he murmured, "Same reason we all feel crappy."

They remained silent for a few minutes.

And then, looking like death on two feet, Newt walked up and sat on the ground in front of them. He looked sad and worried beyond humanly possible. He stared at the concrete for a few seconds before fixing his eyes on Thomas' forehead —to avoid any vision, Thomas realised.

"Greenie. We need to talk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I took longer than usual to update -I'm trying to adapt to the whole summer thing, but all the things I wasn't able to do during the course are now avalanching over me, and I'm even busier than I was with studies (is it even humanly possible?) So sorry!


	14. What you need (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Newt clearly have some things to talk about. Maybe watching Alby is the excuse they need to do so.

Even though he wasn't the quickest one ever at that kind of things, Chuck quickly got the hint. He coffed, grabbed the plate and mumbled, "Um, guys, I'll give this back to Frypan." He walked away before finishing the sentence.

Thomas stared for a second, then turned to face Newt. He was frantically wringing his hands, and his face was dark. Not only because it was close night and the illumination in the Homestead was almost inexistent —the concern and fear in his features broke Thomas' heart. He felt something tighten his throat, and his eyes begun to itch furiously. The tiredness that anchored him to the floor battled with a sudden and strong urge to scramble to Newt and hug him until his sadness faded away.

"What's wrong?" he asked instead. The boy didn't answer for a few seconds.

"Everything," he finally admitted. "Slim it, I'm supposed to watch over Alby now. Shuck. We'll have to talk tomorrow."

There was no way Thomas would let him go away like that.

"No, it's fine. I'll accompany you."

Newt shook his head. "You're not allowed to see him right now. I'm sorry."

Thomas arched an eyebrow, and stared at Newt, who still wouldn't meet his gaze.

"If Alby's the Glade's leader and you're the second-in-command, it technically means that, with him like that, you're the boss now. So, still technically, no one has to allow you to let me see him."

Newt's dismal expression lit up for a moment as a smile flashed across his face. "You're box clever, aren't you? Alright, Greenie. You can come over —but I'm warning you, it's not a pleasant experience."

Instead of asking the million questions that crossed his mind, Thomas gathered every tiny bit of energy he had left and stood up. He stretched a hand out, and helped Newt to his feet. When they touched, he felt something weird —like an electric current going up his arm and then spreading to all of his body. He let go of Newt's hand as soon as he could without being impolite, and discretely rubbed his fingertips against his trousers. They had started tickling, like millions of ants running up and down them.

They walked to the room in silence. Alby's whining put Thomas the hen skin. He started doubting whether he was ready or not to see him. The urge to talk with Newt beat everything else, though; he opened the door and got in.

 

Alby's body was tatooed with thick, dark veins that stretched across his torso, wrapped his arms and went up his neck, caressing the sides of his face, which was contracted in a wince of pain. Even though he was unconscious, he gritted his teeth, and would moan every now and then, writhing.

"I think the worst part's over," Newt quietly said. "The bugger should be sleepin' for a couple of days, then wake up okay. Maybe a little screaming now and then."

Thomas nodded, unable to say anything for the moment. He watched the Glade's leader as he tossed, and remembered him when he got out of the Box. He had appeared strong, ruthless and fearless. It had nothing to do with the current Alby.

"I don't get what this Changing thing is," he finally said under his breath.

Newt's response startled Thomas. "You think we do?" He threw up his arms, and them let them fall down again. "All we bloody know is if the Grievers sting you with their nasty needles, you inject the Grief Serum or you die. If you do get the Serum, then your body wigs out and shakes and your skin bubbles and turns a freaky green color and you vomit all over yourself. Enough explanation for ya there, Tommy?"

Thomas felt all color drain from his face. The answer had been harsh enough to kick him down in the dumps. He didn't want to make Newt any more upset, but he _needed_ answers. He needed to start puzzling that place together, or he'd go nuts. "I... I know it sucks to see your friend go through that, but I just want to know what's really happening. Why do you call it the Changing?"

Something in his tone must have hinted how Newt's previous words had hurt him, because he relaxed. "It brings back memories... Of before we came to this horrible place. Anyone who goes through it acts like a bloody psycho when it's over —although not as bad as poor Ben. Shanks who've been through it'll never really talk about it. They get... Different. I can't stand to be around them." His voice was distant, his eyes staring nowhere. Thomas knew he was thinking about Alby. How he might never be the same again.

"Anything new about the girl?" he said, to fill the silence.

"No," Newt answered, dropping onto a chair, which creaked, and burying his face in his hands. "Still in the buggin' coma, or whatever it is. Every once she'll mumble something —nonsense, like she's dreaming. She takes the food, seems to be doing all right."

"Good, then." Thomas was unsure about how to approach the issue he actually wanted to talk about. "Um, hey. First of all, what the shuck was that punch about? I nearly lost half of my teeth."

Newt arched an eyebrow. "Shame ya didn't. You're a bloody idiot, Thomas. Who on shucking Earth goes into the Maze at night!? The buggin' Greenie, of course. Couldn't just stay still, no. Had to play hero."

It was the second time someone told him that he was playing hero, and that annoyed him to death, for some reason. He hadn't been trying to play hero. He had tried to save two people who had been left alone to face the most horrible night of their lives, yet everyone seemed to disapprove. Only Chuck had said something nice.

"And was I supposed to let them die out there, helpless and alone!?" he shouted, slamming a fist against the wall.

"What you _weren't_ supposed to do was to slip into the Maze being a shucking newbie who knows nothing, Thomas!" Newt answered, shouting as well. "You could've gotten the three of you killed!"

"And I instead got them back!" Thomas felt his cheeks heat up, rage churning inside him.

"That's called a lucky strike, shuck-face! And you didn't care about anyone else, right? Wanted to run, got into the Maze, spent the night there —you must think you're super cool now. Latest news, you're just a bloody idiot! There's a reason why there's rules, Thomas, even if you think you're all above them!"

"JUST SHUT UP!" Thomas screamed, unable to hold on. "You don't know a thing! I went there because they didn't deserve to die alone, without anyone who helped them in the Maze, while you guys just stared. I just endured the shucking worst night of my life, and when I get back, all I get is a punch, a cheap chav threat and some stares. No 'how are you's, no 'thanks', no nothing. And now you're lecturing me? Shuck off!"

Newt, who had been clenching his fists with his knuckles fully white, jumped to his feet and grabbed Thomas' T-shirt again. His teeth were gritted, and his eyes red and swollen. "Look, Greenie—

 

— _I gotta go", he understands. He opens his eyes in fear, and then his face saddens beyond words. He starts crumpling the paper bracelet he wears, and his face slowly empties of color. I can feel my heart breaking. Why is this supposed to be this way? Why can't we find an alternative?  
_

_Why him?_

_Because..._

_I realise that a solitary tear is strolling down his cheek. I lift one hand, extending a finger, and carefully catch it, wiping it away from his velvetish skin. I take that hand to my mouth and kiss the tear, then lean over and hug him. Our bodies fit together perfectly, the way two puzzle pieces do. Even though he has grown ever since he arrived, I'm still taller; his height allows him to hide his head under my chin. I can feel him silently sobbing, and my T-shirt getting wet._

_"Shhh," I whisper, caressing his hair. "I'll be monitoring. I won't let them hurt you."_

_"You can't control that, Tommy," he says. I step back to look him in the eye, and then kiss his smooth forehead, trying to transmit him the calm and strength he needs. I hug him again immediately._

_"I will have to," I say, sniffing.  
_

_Why him?_

_Because  
_

_he_

_is_

_with_

_**me**._

 

When the vision faded, Thomas knew he was crying. He rubbed his eyes with his sleeve.

"I..." he began, regretting what he had just said. His burst of anger now seemed childish. He was there to talk, not to start a fight.

"I can't do this," Newt whispered, covering his eyes with a hand. He sat back on the chair. He crouched over himself; it was as if he had suddenly aged fifty or sixty years. His tone was fraught with so much fear and blame. "I just can't."

"Newt, I really..."

"Should've aimed better. Shuck that wall. Shuck the Maze. Shuck the creators. SHUCK EVERYTHING," he screamed, choking on a sob. "Just go away, Greenie. Don't want ya to see me like this. Get out."

 _That's not what you need,_ Thomas thought. It may have been the vision, but he now knew that, the more Newt tried to scare people away, the more he actually needed someone to support him.

He knelt down besides the boy, and carefully wound his fingers around Newt's wrist, gently pulling his hand away from his eyes. Newt looked at him, his beautiful brown eyes glassy with tears. There was a tense moment of silence; Thomas then slowly pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around his torso.

"Hey. Hey. I'm sorry for all I've said, okay? I just felt so miserable last night, and I couldn't get my mind off the tortured look you gave me before the walls closed. And off the fact that I was in the shucking Maze at night, of course, and the Grievers and all that stuff, but I couldn't stop thinking whether you'd be okay or not, because, slim it, you scared me to death with that look." Thomas waited a second to continue. "And then I came back and I got a punch and a lecture, and I felt so shucked up. I managed to save my life in there, and no one really seemed to care. I felt miserably miserable, if that makes sense. And I just wanted to talk with you, because you were so upset, and then Alby gone through the whole Serum thing, and I couldn't keep my eyes open, much less talk, and I'm just stressed out because I don't know a thing about this place nor about why what I did was wrong, and everyone just scowls me instead of helping me know what's this."

"Thomas. Just shut your mouth for a second," Newt demanded. Thomas obeyed, feeling a violent blush invading his cheeks, and awkwardly patted Newt's back. He didn't really know what to do; he just knew that he wouldn't mind staying like that forever. That thought scared him, but he had no time now for thinking about the fact that he wanted to hug a boy — _Newt—_ forever.

Alby let out a scream, which acted as a signal of that the moment had ended. Newt was the one who broke the hug; he bent over Alby, and took a wet towel from a bucket, putting it on the boy's forehead. Thomas put his hand on Newt's, and helped him with the towel, sliding his fingers between the other's.

"I'm sorry too for talkin' to you like that," Newt finally admitted. "You frightened me, Thomas. When you were out there I seriously thought I'd never see you again or that I'd find your dead body next morning —and that scared me so much. I don't know why, but it scared me so much. And then you came and I didn't feel like punchin' ya at all, but everyone was there, and you had broken the rules after all. And then all this Alby shit, and I've had it up to here with the Maze and all this."

Thomas didn't say anything. He just held Newt's hand and felt, for the first time since he arrived to the Glade, like he belonged. Like everything started to make sense.

 

After a while, Newt stood up, and let go of Thomas' hand to put the bucket near Alby's bed. He then gestured towards Thomas, and exited the room.

"Where are we going?" Thomas asked, unsure about how to behave after such a conversation.

"To your bed," Newt said. He must have realised that those words did have a double meaning, because he corrected himself. Thomas felt oddly sad that he couldn't see his face in the dark. "I mean, you've gone through the buggin' night in the Maze. You do need some rest."

"Alright," Thomas said. He was too tired to add anything else.

When they reached Thomas' hammock, he threw himself on in, and immediately felt his eyelids heavy. He felt them closing, but fought it to ask, "won't you stay? Just until I fall asleep. I need someone besides me, or I'll go nuts."

"There's plenty of Gladers around," Newt pointed out. He approached his bed, though, and carefully lied down on it. The hammock swooned as they moved to find the right position; after a while, Thomas' hands went to Newt's chest. He relied on it to drag himself up and balance their weight so as to avoid falling off, but when he was done, he didn't take them away.

He wondered whether he could sleep or not with Newt being that close. For a moment, he thought he couldn't; though tiredness quickly took over him, and the boy drifted off to sleep, feeling Newt's warmth.


	15. The Gathering (*)

When Thomas woke up, Newt was gone.

He groggily touched the rough fabric, finding it cold to the touch —Thomas had been alone for, at least, a good half an hour. Or maybe one hour. Or maybe two. Or maybe all the night.

Fighting his lips' urge of curving downwards, he sat, with his feet firmly planted on the ground, as he rubbed his eyes. What did he have to do? He vaguely remembered that it had to do with his trip to the Maze, but that was it. No more memories.

"Hey, Thomas!" Chuck called, waving a hand in front of his eyes. "You're late, shuck-face! They're going nuts in the Homestead —you were supposed to be there ten minutes ago."

Thomas frowned. "Wait. What? To be there why?"

Chuck rolled his eyes. "The Gathering! They're going to decide whether they kick your ass out of the Glade or not. You're already familiar with what's out there, so..." The kid chuckled, smiling to himself. Thomas grunted. 

"And what's a Gathering? I don't know if someone explained to me or not —but it doesn't ring any bell."

Shaking his head, Chuck said, "yes, right. I keep on forgetting that you're still a newbie. The Gatherings are basically meetings. Reunions. Whatever. The Keepers gather — _Gatherings_ , you know— in the Homestead, and they discuss important issues. The comatose girl, Ben, a shuck-face newbie running into the Maze —things like those."

Amongst the sleepiness that misted his mind, Thomas vaguely registered the words "keepers", "meetings" and "discuss important issues". More than enough to get to the conclusion that he was late for something.

And it wasn't going to be fun.

 

Eleven boys sat in chairs arranged in a semicircle around him. They were the Keepers, and to Thomas' disgust, that meant Gally was among them, waiting to defame him. The chair directly in front of him stood empty —he didn't need to be told that it was Alby's.

Besides the chairs, the room had no other furniture except for a small table. Everything was made of wood, from the walls —which had no windows— to the floor, and the place clearly didn't mean to be inviting. At least, Newt was there. He had tried to avoid staring at him when he entered the room, but he couldn't help some nervous glances every now and then. After all, his future was on the other boy's hands. Not literally, but almost.

Newt sat in a chair to the right of Alby's. "In place of our leader, sick in bed, I declare this Gathering begun," he announced, with a subtle roll of his eyes, as if he hated anything similar to formality. "As you all know, the last few days have been bloody crazy, and quite a bit seems centered around our Greenbean, Tommy, seated before us."

Thomas felt his face heat up with embarrassment.

"He's not the Greenie anymore," Gally said, his scratchy voice low and cruel. It gave Thomas the creeps. "He's just a rule breaker now."

Newt shushed the murmurs that awoke. Thomas had to keep himself from running away as fast as his legs could. 

"Gally," the Glade's seccond-in-command said, "try to keep some buggin' order, here. If you're gonna blabber your shuck mouth every time I say something, you can go ahead and bloody leave, because I'm not in a very cheerful mood."

Was it forbidden to cheer and clap at that? Not even Minho did, and the Keeper of the Runners would've been the first one to do so if he could. He didn't even open his mouth, but instead lied on his chair like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Yawning everytime he winked, the Keeper of the Runners obviously needed a nap. Various naps.

Gally leaned back in his chair, clearly upset, and Thomas almost laughed out loud. It was hard to believe that the guy had creeped him a day earlier —he seemed even pathetic now.

"Glad we got that out of the way." Newt rolled his eyes again. "Reason we're here is because almost every lovin' kid in the Glade has come up to me in the last day or two either boohooing about Thomas or beggin' to take his bloody hand in marriage. We need to decide what we're gonna do with him. Tommy, you're not allowed to say a buggin' thing until we ask you too. Good that?" Newt's eyes seemed to soften when he looked at Thomas and waited for a nod. "Zart the Fart, you start."

"Well, I don't know. He broke one of our most important rules. We can't just let people think that's okay. But..." Thomas looked at Zart. He looked more out of place than a potato in a strawberry field, and as he rubbed his hands together, he made it clear that he felt even more awkward than Thomas himself did. "He's... Changed things. Now we know we can survive out there, and that we can beat the Grievers."

Thomas wanted to shout out loud his thanks to Zart. He instead promised himself to be extra nice to the Keeper. 

"Oh, give me a break," Gally spurted. "I bet Minho's the one who actually got rid of the stupid things."

"Gally, shut your hole!" Newt yelled, standing for effect. Thomas felt like cheering again. "I'm the bloody Chair right now, and if I hear one more buggin' word out of turn from you, I'll be arrangin' another Banishing for your sorry but."

"Please," Gally whispered sarcastically. Didn't that technically count as one more buggin' word? Thomas wished it did.

It apparently didn't. Newt ignored him, sat and glanced at Zart. "Is that it? Any official recommendations?" The boy shook his head. "Okay. You're next, Frypan."

The tall boy smiled, caressing his beard. "Shank's got more guts than I've fried up from every pig and cow in the last year." No one laughed at the joke. "How stupid is this —he saves Alby's life, kills a couple of Grievers, and we're sitting here yappin' about what to do with him. As Chuck would say, this is a pile of klunk." Thomas' hand itched to shake Frypan's —he'd just said exactly what Thomas himself thought. "I say, put him on the freaking Council and have him train us on everything he did out there."

The room broke into blabber, and it took Newt half a minute to calm everyone down. "All right," he said as he scribbled on a notepad. "Now everyone keep their bloody mouths shut, I mean it. You know the rules —no idea's unacceptable— and you'll all have your say when we vote on it."

 

Three more Keepers spoke, two arguing in favour of punishing Thomas and one supporting Frypan's suggestion. Then it was Newt's turn. Thomas' hearbeat stopped short, and he would only later realise that he had held his breath.

"I agree with the lot of ya. He should be punished, but then we need to figure out a way to use him. I'm reservin' my recommendation until I hear everyone out. Next."

Thomas bit his lip, frustrated. On the one hand, he hated the punishment thing, though he couldn't disagree —even if he had achieved a miracle, he had broken a major rule. On the other, he had secretly hoped for some support from Newt. Not a cryptical answer. He felt a hot flush in his stomach, and looked at the boy. What was he thinking?

The rest of the Keepers went down the line. Some praised him, some wanted to see him in the Slammer for at least two weeks. Some did both. Thomas could barely stand listening anymore, anticipating the comments from the last two Keepers. Gally and Minho.

Gally went first. "I think I've made my opinions pretty clear already..." _Great,_ Thomas thought. _Then just shut your mouth._

Newt thought the same. "Good that. Go on, Minho."

"No!" Gally yelled, making some Keepers jump in their seats. One of then, Winston, brought a hand to his chest, and frowned at Gally. "I still wanna say something."

"Bloody say it," Newt replied, exasperated. At least he despised Gally almost as much as he did. Thomas wasn't afraid of him anymore, but he still hated him with all his passion.

"Just think about it," Gally said. "This slinthead comes up in the Box, acting all confused and scared. A few days later, he's running around the Maze with Grievers, acting like he owns the place. I think it was all an act. How could he have done what he did after just a few days? I ain't buyin' it."

Newt snorted, gripping his notepad. "What're you tryin' to say, Gally? How 'bout having a bloody point?" 

"I think he's a spy from the people who put us here."

The room bursted once again into a million conversations. Thomas shook his head, wondering how did Gally come up with those ideas. But his mind soon traveled somewhere else —Newt wasn't against him, after all. It could've been his imagination, but he could've sworn that the boy had actually angered at Gally when the later had accused Thomas of being a spy.

"We can't trust this shank," Gally continued when everyone calmed down. "Day after he shows up, a psycho girl comes, spoutin' off that things are gonna change..." The boy went on rambling about his theories. Panic invaded Thomas' chest. Did the rest of the Keepers actually think the way Gally did? He wanted to defend himself so much it hurt, but before he could break his silence for the first time, Gally was talking again. Did he ever shut up? "There's too many weird things going on, and it all started when this shuck-face Greenie showed up. And he just happens to be the first one to survive a night out in the Maze."

"Finished, Captain Gally?" Newt asked. He was writing down Gally's suggestion to put Thomas in the Slammer for a month. The loose movements of his hand hinted the little interest he put into it.

"Quit being such a smart aleck, Newt!" he spat. "I'm dead serious. Quit voting me down before you even think about what I'm saying."

Thomas felt a little —just a little— empathy for Gally. He did have a point about how Newt treated him. It wasn't anything he hadn't earned, though. Thomas had only witnessed one Gathering, and he already felt like Banishing him.

"Fine, Gally," Newt said. "I'm sorry. We heard you, and we'll all consider your bloody recommendation. You done?"

"Yes, I'm done. And I'm right."

Newt didn't waste his time answering at that provocation. He instead pointed at Minho.

"Go ahead, last but not least."

Elated that it was Minho's time, Thomas broke a small smile. The Runner would defend him to the end. Minho stood, taking everyone off guard.

"This guy stayed strong while I turned into a panty-wearin' chicken. I want to say my recommendation and be done with it —no blabbin' on and on like Gally." He looked at Thomas. "I nominate this shank to replace me as Keeper of the Runners."


	16. Gally, have a bloody seat (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gathering isn't over yet —and Gally is about to bring in one 180º turn on the discussion.

Hell broke loose in the Homestead. Everyone started talking and shouting, and two or three asked Minho whether his night in the Maze had driven him nuts. There were only eleven Keepers and a Glader in the room, but judging by the noise, there could've been fifty or sixty. Thomas held his head, desperate, and wondered if things could gone any worse.

"That's ridiculous!" Gally yelled, his cheeks bright red. The rest of the boys shutted up, and looked at him. He jumped to his feet, and pointed a finger at Minho, facing Newt. "He should be kicked off the Council for saying such a stupid thing."

Thomas winked, and any remote pity he had felt for Gally completely vanished.

The Gathering had divided into two. Some Keepers seemed to approve Minho's recommendation, —such as Frypan, who tried to shut Gally clapping—, but some others didn't. They were still arguing and discussing between them, and Thomas could've sworn that the walls were actually shaking.

He was shaking as well. Why had Minho said that? It had to be a joke. Newt told him that it took ages to become a Runner, leave apart the Keeper. Talking about Newt. The Chair was the only one, appart from Thomas, who wasn't screaming his lungs out at some other Keeper. He was busy sketching some lines on a blank page.

 

A few seconds after, Newt put his notepad down and stepped out from the semicircle, screaming at everyone to shut up. At first, no one seemed to hear or notice him at all, and Thomas felt like punching them all —even Frypan, despite his strong support— right in the face, just like the blond had hit him. He knew that it was a powerful shutter, but he was also aware that it would earn him plenty of hatred, at least. 

Gradually, though, Newt managed to restore the order. "Shuck it," he said, narrowing his eyes. "I've never seen so many shanks acting like teat-suckin' babies. We may not look it, but around these parts we're adults. Act like it, or we'll disband this bloody Council and start from scratch." He walked around the curved row of sitting Keepers, looking each of them in the eye as he spoke. "Are we clear?" 

Surprisingly, everyone nodded their consent —not even Gally dared to outburst again. The room was dead silent now.

"Good that." Newt walked back to his chair and sat down, massaging his forehead. He wrote something on the paper, and then looked up at Minho. "That's some pretty serious klunk, brother. Sorry, but you need to talk it up to move it forward."

Thomas had agogly waited to hear that. He let his body free all the tension he had accumulated —which was much more than expected. His shoulders sunk over three centimeters when he relaxed.

The Keeper of the Runners looked exhausted, but started defending his proposal. "It's sure easy for you shanks to sit here and talk about something you're stupid on. I'm the only Runner in this group, and the only other one here who's even been out in the Maze is Newt."

Thomas frowned, and glanced at the Chair, who suddenly found the floor rather amazing. Did that have anything to do with the hobble? He somehow knew that the Maze was an important piece in the Newt puzzle, one that he would have to find and put in place if he wanted to truly know him. And he did. So badly.

"Not if you count the time I—" Gally interjected. Thomas didn't feel like punching him now —he _needed_ it.

"I don't!" Minho shouted, apparently just as tired of Gally's incessant —and unnecessary— interruptions as Thomas. "And believe me, you or nobody else has the slightest clue what it's like to be out there. The only reason you were stung is because you broke the same rule you're blaming Thomas for. That's called hypocrisy, you shuck-faced piece of—"

"Enough," Newt said, raising his arms in an appeasing gesture. "Defend your proposal and be done, Minho."

And so the Keeper did. He seemed to gain more strength as he spoke, retelling the events of last night. Everyone bent over in their chairs as they listened to him, saw his gleaming eyes, heard his enthusiastic tone. "I told Thomas we had to split up and I started the practiced evasive maneuvers, running in the patterns. Thomas, when he should've klunked in his pants, took control, defied all laws of physics and gravity to get Alby up onto—"

"We get the point," Gally spitted. "Tommy here is a lucky shank."

"No, you worthless shuck," Minho begun, his pale cheeks lighting up as he rounded on him. "You don't get it! I've never seen anything like it. You're nothing but a sissy who has never, not once, asked to be a Runner or tried out for it. You don't have the right to talk about things you don't understand. So shut your mouth."

Gally's gesture darkened, his nostrils widening and his eyes narrowing. "Who's blabbering their shuck mouth, now?"

"You, Gally," Newt answered, rolling his eyes. He stood up, and stepped between the two Keepers. "I want the two of you seated now." He waited a second. "NOW! I'm bloody serious. If you don't get your asses sat in a buggin' chair, I'm personally Banishing you two. Specially you, Gally —quit bein' so full of klunk about everyone, will you?"

"What's this, Newt!?" Gally shouted, not moving an inch. Minho, who was on his way to his seat, turned to throw a dirty look at him. It was like watching two titans fight —a small, evillious one against a brave, well-built one. 

"This, Gally," Newt yelled at him, "is a bloody Gathering, in which the Keepers, the buggin' Keepers, are expected to be mentally older than ten. And I'm the bloody Chair, and you either seat or get out there to have a Tommy-like experience. At least you'll know then what you're talking about —if you come back."

Gally snorted, and pointed at Thomas. "Tommy? Tommy!? This isn't serious!"

"GALLY, HAVE A BLOODY SEAT."

Winston stood up, and put a hand on Gally's shoulder. "Dude, you _should_ sit."

Gally shook it off. "I'm not taking this klunk, and I can't believe you guys are!" He pointed at Newt, who clenched his fists, as if he were trying not to hit him until he shut up. "You've never liked me, we all know that, but this is not only about me, Newt! This is about the whole Glade, and you're acting like a stupid girl in love! What's this Tommy shit!? He's a shuckin' threaten to our wellfare, and you're too blind to see it! Alby would've never—"

"ALBY'S FIGHTING FOR HIS LIFE, SHANK," Minho shouted, standing besides Newt again, "AND HE ISN'T DEAD YET BECAUSE THOMAS —OR TOMMY, WHATEVER IT IS— SAVED HIS BUTT."

"That's what I'm trying to say! Isn't it suspicious that he managed to kill a Griever and survive a night in there? Think about it, for shuck's sake!"

Digging his index in the boy's chest, Newt bent over Gally. "You. Get the hell out of this Gathering, and thank God or whoever is up there I don't Banish you. You grow some buggin' maturity and stop acting like a child, then you come back."

Gally's face was as red as if he had spent hours sunbathing and burnt. "Why're you even defending him? Can't you see it!? He's taking over everything!"

 _Can't I have a say?_ Thomas thought, furious. All that talk about him as if he wasn't there was wracking his nerves. _It's me we're talking about, after all!_

"Gally. Get. The hell. Out," Newt menaced him. "Calm the shuck down and try to think of Alby, who's buggin' alive thanks to the shank you're trying to punish. Try making some soul-searching about this Thomas thing then."

"That's what I mean, slim it!" Gally grabbed Thomas' T-shirt's fabric, and closed his fist around it, making him stand up. "You defend him as if you two were in love! This is supposed to be a serious meeting to protect the Glade, and it's like we're watching a girl protect her shuckin' boyfriend here!"

"AND WHAT IF!?"

Everyone shutted up, jaws dropping to the floor.

Newt's too.

 

Thomas violently threw his shoulder backwards, separating from Gally, whose cheeks had paled at an enormous speed. He glanced around, feeling a hot flush invade his body and take over. "What the shuck's wrong with you guys? Your leader's alive, you now know that you can get out of this place —and you're blabbering about whether I'm a criminal and I like this guy or not? What kind of leaders are you!?"

No one dared break the silence for a few seconds —enough for Thomas to realise what he had just said.

 

_Whether I like this guy or not._

_Whether I like this guy._

_I. Like. This. Guy._

_Slim it._

_Shuckin' slim it._

 

Newt was the first one to move. While the rest of the Council remained still, like a video that has been paused, he took Thomas by his shoulders and made him turn, gently but firmly pushing him towards the door. He opened the door, and made him exit the room. "Enough pressure on you for today. You go out, get some grub, breathe some fresh air."

Thomas' brain finally reacted, and words collapsed in his mouth. "I —I didn't mean to—I mean, yes, I meant to, but I didn't _actually_ meant to mean that..."

"Tommy," Newt interrupted him, bending over slightly to look him in the eye. He showed a tiny smile, which was the most sincere one Thomas had ever seen. 

 

And that was it. There's this moment, when you fall in love, in which gazillions of Grievers seem to break loose in your stomach. Your legs feel weaker than if you had ran for hours, your mind goes blank and you just can't think. No, the only thing you're able to do is staring into those eyes, _his_ eyes and vaguely wondering where have they been all your life.

 

"Tommy," Newt repeated. Did his voice had a melodic cadence, or was it just Thomas' imagination? No, it did. It was as melodic as birds chirping in the morning, as musical as a river flowing. "Tommy, you even there? Just go find Chuckie and hang out somewhere far from here. There's some nice corners down the forest."

"I'm sorry," Thomas blurted out, feeling his cheeks heat up. "I didn't mean to put you into trouble, Newt. I swear I didn't, I just wasn't—"

Newt suddenly leaned in, and planted such a tender and light kiss on Thomas' cheek that the boy only felt it when he pulled away. "I know, Thomas. We _both_ messed up. Didn't meant to defend you against all odds today, in front of everyone, and now hell's broken loose in there —I can hear Gally claimin' our heads. Could see you were worried and confused. Sorry 'bout that. And now that it's clear that it's both of us' fault, run before they burn you in a bloody stake or somethin'."

Patting his shoulder, Newt opened the door again, and dissapeared into the room, screaming a "WHOEVER THROWS ANOTHER PUNCH IS BANISHED RIGHT AWAY" at the top of his lungs. Thomas shook his head when the second-in-command banged the door closed, and felt a huge grin slowly modelling his features.

Like a teenager who receives their first kiss — _like a girl,_ like Gally would spit—, he touched the skin right besides his ear, where Newt's lips had caressed him. _His lips had been there._ That had to mean something. That _meant_ something. He felt his heart trying to jump out of his chest as he remembered the moment over and over again. The Gathering seemed to be two thousand light years away now. 

His legs itched for a good run. He sprinted across the Homestead's concrete-floored corridors, avoiding some Med-jacks who wandered from the girl's room to Alby's. Getting out, he found Chuck standing in front of the Homestead, with a fist in the air, frozen, as if he had been on the verge of calling when Thomas slammed the door open.

"Whoa," the kid breathed, "hello, you too. What's happening in there? We're hearing you guys from —literally— the other side of the Glade."

"They're deciding whether they punish me in the Slammer forever or use me to defeat the Grievers," Thomas said, trying to hide his joy. The boy would be suspicious if he smiled as he said such a thing. He wasn't successful, however; Chuck arched an eyebrow and crossed his arms.

"Is it so? Then why're you smiling? I'm not buyin'."

"Better to smile than to cry, dude," Thomas tried. "They're throwing all their klunk to me, seriously —you should see this Gally guy, he completely hates me. The only reason why he hasn't Banished me himself is because the rest would see him do it."

"I told you," Chuck laughed, "Gally hates everybody. It's his thing. I even had nightmares with him for almost two weeks." The boy glanced down at his hands. "It took a while to stop wetting my pants whenever he came around and teased me."

Thomas offered him a crooked smile. "We'll make him have nightmares with us," he promised.

 

But no nightmare could've been worse than the scream that suddenly pierced the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, guys, this is seriously crazy. Back in chapter 8, I was marvelled by having hit over 375 views, and now it has rocketed up to 1125. WHAT. I JUST CAN'T BELIEVE IT. I wish I could go to your houses (creepy) and hug you one by one (creepier)! THANKS! Seriously, I just can't digest it yet, it's like... Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.


	17. Alby (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems like Alby has finally woken up, and now the time has come for answers. But why does Alby insist on speaking to Thomas alone?

His legs moved before he could actually think of doing so, and suddenly, Thomas found himself opening the Homestead door and storming in. He had been more than glad to get out mere seconds ago, but that scream —it was Alby, no doubt. And Thomas felt responsible for him. 

A pair of strong hands grabbed his biceps and stopped him short. His arms protested against the harsh gesture, and he almost collapsed to the floor; though his captor kept him standing. "Hey, hey, hey. No goin' in, dude."

"But he—" Thomas tried to say. Minho shook his head.

"If you get in there, at least three Keepers will try to push you downstairs and say you accidentally fell and broke your neck. You're bonkers if you still wanna get in."

Thomas gave it a thought, and then stopped opposing resistance. He didn't want to be pathetically killed by Gally or any other one. He directly didn't want to be pathetically killed —even better; he didn't want to be killed.

Smiling, Minho punched him playfully in the arm. "I've heard it's all this shank's fault. Thomas, can it be?"

Relaxing, Thomas punched back. "Keeper? You want me to be a Keeper? You're nuttier than Gally by a long shot."

Minho faked an evil grin. "Worked, didn't it? Aim high, hit low. Thank me later."

Thomas laughed, impressed by the Runner's intelligent _modus operandi_. "However —what happened finally in there?"

"Well..." Minho playfully caressed his chin, as if doubting whether to tell him or not. "You know, there was a kind of revolution after some Thomas guy said that he was into our leader..."

"I didn't say that," the same Thomas guy whispered, feeling like his body had turned into an industrial-sized heater.

"...Everyone went crazy, 'course. Newt had to kick some asses before everyone honoured us returning to their seats. That Gally crummy was almost kicked out, which I would've happily voted for, but unfortunately didn't happen. Then, some blabber here and there, everyone talking shit about the Thomas guy..., until Newt, again, almost Banished them all for being such incompetents. Whatever. You've been elected as a Runner, starting tomorrow, and you're going to have a very nice and funny day at the Slammer. I think it's tomorrow as well, from sunrise to sunset."

The amount of information made Thomas feel a bit dizzy, but he got the basics:

a) Everyone thought he was into Newt. (Something that even he himself wasn't certain about.)

b) Gladers were not very happy about guys loving guys. (It sounded stupid and childish when you thought of it, actually.)

c) He was a Runner now. (FINALLY.)

d) He'd have to spend a whole day in a filthy and seedy jail instead of training or running through the Maze. (It was the most stupid thing he had ever heard of, but if following the rules meant earning some sympathy again, then hey, where do I sign in?)

And the most important of them all: he definitely _had_ to learn to keep his mouth shut.

 

All of a sudden, Chuck, who had apparently disappeared into the building without anyone noticing, opened the door and looked at Thomas. He looked like he had just been chased by a Griever, and all happiness about being a Runner vanished.

"What's wrong, Chuckie?" Minho asked.

Chuck wouldn't stop wringing his hands. "Med-jacks sent me. Alby's acting all crazy, telling them he needs to talk to somebody."

Minho nodded, and grabbed the doorknob. "Fine. I'll go tell Newt and—" He quietened when Chuck shook his head.

The boy pointed at Thomas. "He doesn't want him. He keeps asking for Thomas."

"Ha. Good attempt," someone said from the Homestead. Newt's head popped out the door, startling Chuck. "No way I'm not going with ya. By the way, Chuckie, you stay."

"Newt..." Minho said. He looked at the boy with a serious gesture, frowning. It was the first time ever Thomas saw him like that —not joking around, not messing with anyone, but actually worrying about someone. His voice sounded like a warning. One with red lights and fluorescent edges.

Newt shook his head. "I know. But he's Alby —I'm not stayin' away."

Inhaling deeply, Minho closed his eyes and pinched his nose bridge. "Whatever, dude. Just make sure Gally doesn't see you two."

The Glade's second-in-command's eyes shone, and he put a hand on Minho's shoulder. "Worry not. And thanks."

Minho waved his hand, as if telling them to go away. Thomas had the feeling that he was missing something, but shook it away. He had enough problems already. He instead looked at Chuck, who was pale and hadn't said a thing. "Lighten up. I've just been elected as a Runner, so you're friends with a stud now."

The boy nodded, but his face was pale and sweaty. There was something about Alby's behaviour that clearly wrecked his nerves.

With a shrug, Thomas began climbing the stairs. Realisation of what they had just told him —that Alby, sick and Changing Alby was asking for him— suddenly struck him, and he felt a drop slipping down his temple. Why would the leader want to see him? To thank him? Thomas had the feeling that it was not the case. What if he wanted to accuse him the way Ben had?

Besides him, Newt remained silent, sunk in his own thoughts. Right. Newt. Minho's glare and face also haunted him. What had that meant? What had happened in the Gathering? Why did he have so many questions? He would go nuts if he didn't start answering them.

When Thomas reached the landing, Newt was already there, grim and solemn, waiting. Thomas' mind vaguely registered the fact that the stair he had climbed wasn't the one he had went up to see Ben. It was equally gloomy and dark, but it was on the opposite side of the Homestead. Newt knocked lightly on the second door on the right, and a reply came under the form of a moan. The creak of the door when Newt opened it reminded Thomas of some vague memory of movies from his childhood.

And there it was again —a glimpse of his past slipping away. He remembered watching movies, but not the actors, the stories or the people he had watched them with. He remembered stores, but not what they looked like. It was like having a firewall protecting his memories from him.

Newt had already stepped into the room, and motioned for Thomas to follow. He entered, expecting any horror —but all he saw was a very weak teenager lying in his bed. "Is he asleep?" Thomas avoided the real question: _He isn't dead, is he?_

"I don't know," Newt quietly said. He sat in a creaky chair next to the bed. "Alby," he whispered. "Alby. Chuck said you wanted to talk to Tommy."

Thomas tried to ignore the butterflies in his stomach at the nickname. Alby's eyes jolt open, bloodshot spheres that absorbed the little light. He looked at Newt, and then turned to stare at Thomas. He sat up, groaning, his back against the headboard. "Yeah." His voice was broken.

"What's wrong? You still sick?" Newt asked, leaning forward.

Alby's words came out in a wheeze, as if every one of them took a week off his life. "Everything's... gonna change... The girl... Thomas... I saw them..." He paused. "I saw you."

Newt gulped, and so Thomas did. They stared at each other, worry deforming their features.

"What do you mean, you—" Newt began.

"I WANTED THOMAS!" Alby yelled. All his feverness vanished in a burst of energy that Thomas would've thought impossible just a few seconds earlier. "I didn't ask for you, Newt! Thomas! I asked for freaking Thomas!"

 

As Newt left, he didn't know whether he should feel sorry, angry or sad. Sorry for Alby, angry because he had kicked him out or sad because he was losing his friend. Alby and he hadn't always been the best friends, but they got along. They protected the Glade from the chaos, and now the chaos was on Alby's mind. Heck, he was even afraid —afraid of being left alone. And afraid that something might happen to Thomas.

People who Changed behaved imprevisibly. They had violent episodes, then they were calm, then they seemed as if they were about to die, then they angered, then they depressed, then it started again. Alby could hurt Thomas, and he wouldn't be there to protect him.

Not knowing what to do, Newt sat on the landing. He hadn't even touched the floor when Thomas began yelling. 

"Alby! Newt! Newt, get in here!"

_I bloody knew it._

Newt jumped to his feet when he heard Alby's name; Thomas hadn't even finished his last sentence when he stormed into the room, banging the door open. He ran to Alby and grabbed his shoulders, putting all his weight to pin him to the bed. "Grab his legs!"

With the corner of his eye, he quickly checked Thomas —he was alright, scared but alright. He then looked down. Alby was trying to strangle himself, choking. 

Thomas moved forward, but Alby's legs kicked and flailed out. His foot hit Thomas' jaw; pain bursted throughout his whole skull. He stepped backwards, rubbing the sore spot. "Just bloody do it!" Newt yelled, anxiety squeezing his throat. He felt like screaming and crouching until everything had passed. If it wasn't because Alby's life and Thomas' integrity depended on him, he would've done it right away.

The boy calmed down, and then jumped onto Alby's body, grabbing his legs and pinning them to the bed. He squeezed the boy's thighs with his arms, while Newt put a knee on one of Alby's shoulders and grabbed his hands, still clasped around his own neck in a chokehold.

"Let go!" Newt yelled as he tugged. He felt the corners of his eyes wetten. "You're bloody killin' yourself! Alby, please!"

His muscles bulged out as he flexed his arms, veins popping out as he pulled Alby's hands, slowly prying them away inch by inch. He pushed them hard against the boy's chest; after jerking a couple of times, Alby calmed down, and he lay still, his breath steadying. Thomas was still holding his legs, visibly afraid to move. Newt himself was. He waited a full minute before slowly and hesitatingly letting go of Alby's hands. Then another minute before standing up, pulling his knee back. After he did, Thomas mimicked him.

Alby looked up to them, his eyes droppy, as if he was fighting to stay awake. "I'm sorry, Newt," he mumbled. "Don't know what happened. It was like... Something was controlling my body. I'm so sorry..."

Newt could hear Thomas taking a deep breath. He did the same, shaking. "Sorries, nothin'," he replied. "You were trying to bloody kill yourself."

"Wasn't me, I swear," Alby murmured.

Newt closed his eyes, dizzy, and then threw his hands up. "What do you mean it wasn't you?"

"I don't know... It... it wasn't me."

Alby's voice was pregnant with confusion. It wasn't worth trying to figure out, at least at the moment; Newt was tired and felt lost, and the last thing he wanted was to carry out an interrogatory. He grabbed the blankets that had fallen off Alby's bed in his struggle and pulled them, covering the sick boy. "Get your butt to sleep and we'll talk about it later." His words came out full of tender. "You're messed up, shank."

But Alby was already asleep.

As they exited the room, though, the Glade's leader mumbled something from his bed. Both boys stopped in their tracks. "What?" Newt asked.

Alby weakily openned his eyes, then repeated what he'd said. "Be careful with the girl." Then he shut his eyes again.

There it was —the girl. Somehow, everything seemed to be related to her. Plus, she made Newt afraid, though he would never admit it. She seemed to know Thomas, and Thomas seemed to know her. What had they been? Were they together? Was Thomas falling for her? Newt thought of the visions, which ought to have calmed him down, but it didn't work. In their visions, they weren't kissing nor anything. Plus, had they been anything, it might have been wiped forever. Just like their memories. Just like everything. 

_Great, Newt. Glade's on the verge of bloody collapsing, and you worry 'bout a boy. Great way to go._

He shook his head, pushing his insecurities and fears aside, and looked at Thomas. "Let's go."

"And Newt?" Alby called again, not even opening his eyes. The boy turned on his heels, ready to run to his bed and help him however he could. 

"Yeah?"

Alby rolled over, his back telling them speaking time was over. "Protect the Maps."

 

As soon as they closed the room's door, Newt rested his back against the wall and let himself slip to the floor. He allowed himself to be weak for a second. Just for one second. He put his hands over his face, and felt a single tear rolling down his cheek. He couldn't take this anymore. He just couldn't.

Alby almost killing himself, and saying those threatening things. The whole Glade judging him for something even he himself wasn't sure about. Every single day being exactly the same as the former, always the same. Gally trying to sabotage him and impose his own tyranny. Not finding a way out in the Maze. Everyone going crazy. More and more people being stung. The girl. Thomas. His own confusion. The emptiness inside. The fact that he was still alive. 

A single tear contained all of that. It fell to the dusty floor.

It was time to be strong again. Just for the others. Just to avoid breaking.

Newt felt a hand on his shoulder. When he looked up, Thomas was there, offering the other to him. "Come on. Don't worry."

Newt accepted it, and stood up, rubbing his cheeks. Great. Add another thing to the list. The Greenie had seen him cry twice. Not once. _Twice._ Slim it.

"Let's go," Newt said, with a raspy voice. He cleared his throat, letting go of Thomas hand and turning to set for the stairs. Thomas grabbed his wrist again, though, and forced him to stop. Newt was about to say something, but Thomas interrupted him. He _hugged him._

"Newt. You don't have to be strong with me. You can pretend you're invincible out there. I don't care. The rest needs it. But you don't have to with me." He awkwardly patted his back. _"Crying is okay."_

Chewing his lower lip, Newt sniffed, letting Thomas' words sink in.

And then, he cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO sorry for the delay guys! I went on vacation and I forgot to take my laptop, so I couldn't update NV nor any other story or project I'm working on. I felt guilty for the whole week... Here's the chapter, and with an extra of fluff, to compensate, though. I really hope you can forgive this slinthead...


	18. It's just a shucking belly button (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the troublesome Gathering, Thomas has earned himself an icy treatment from most of the Gladers—though some are still by his side. Such as..., let's say, Newt? But Thomas can't act normal around him, and it's getting on his nerves. Will he finally discover the reason why? Or is it that he knew all along but hasn't dared to admit it? This is not the only thing he will have to face, though—why does he, all of a sudden, hear a voice in his head? Is he crazy?

When Newt finally calmed down, he smiled shyly at Thomas. "Seems like ya gonna bug me around whether I want it or not, isn't it?"

Thomas nodded. "Of course I will. I've told you. You have to be strong for all these shanks, I get it. Go ahead. But we sometimes need some time to ourselves —some time to be weak, too. I am your time to be weak. Just don't make me repeat it over and over. Go ahead and let it go whenever you have to."

Newt opened his eyes wide, shocked for a moment. Having always been kind of the leader, he wasn't at home with being talked to in such way. His bossiest part felt like scolding the Greenie for talking to him that way, but that urge was quickly overpassed by the one to compensate Thomas for his support. "Hungry, Tommy? I am, ya shank. Let's go look for some leftovers from lunch."

They made their way to the kitchen talking and joking. None of them mentioned Alby nor Newt's breakdown, and they both carefully avoided anything that could lead back to those topics. Instead, Newt told Thomas a bit more about the Gatherings.

"They're not always _that_ chaothic," he said. "Well, okay, they are. Though shanks don't usually get _that_ violent. You did startle them, Tommy." 

That should've been the third banned topic. 

Thomas coughed, feeling unexpectedly violent. It was as if someone had caught him spying on the girls' dressing room or stealing a chocolate bar from the supermarket. _Wait. What's a supermarket? Dressing rooms? How did I come up with those metaphors?_ His heart saddened for a moment when he didn't recall anything, but then he remembered the Gathering they were talking about. Shame took over everything else.

"Urm, yeah. I just —it wasn't fair! I was sitting there, listening to their klunk, and they wouldn't let me talk. And they were talking about _me_! I just had to say something. And then they went down with that love thing —I couldn't take it anymore. I hate it when people talk klunk without knowing."

Newt opened his mouth, but he didn't say anything. He closed it a few seconds after, and passed an arm over Thomas' shoulders. He wasn't all colleague-y, though. Thomas gave him a sideways look. His expression had saddened beyond humanly possible. It was as if he had been told that all Gladers had been killed by the Grievers while he was telling Gally off.

"I know," he muttered after a while. Thomas hadn't expected any word from him, and so he winked, surprised. "I know."

He didn't say anything else.

 

Despite Frypan's grumbling, they got cheese sandwiches and raw vegetables. Thomas couldn't help noticing the Keeper's behaviour, staring at him but quickly looking away when Thomas returned the stare. _This'll be the norm from now on,_ he thought. His gut told him so. 

That, added to Newt's silence, was one of the strongest reasons why they agreed on eating outside, at the west wall, far from stares. Even though his partner and Frypan's attitudes had taken all apetite away, Thomas forced himself to eat. The sandwich was pretty small, yet it seemed to be endless. 

"Never seen any Changed shank try to tell us what they remembered. They always refused. I think that's why Alby went nuts and tried to kill himself." Newt bit a carrot, staring at nowhere. His face was somber now. "We have to find Gally. Bugger gone off and hid somewhere. I need to throw his butt in jail —as soon as we're done eating, you're helping me."

"Serious?" Thomas cheered up a bit. Newt wasn't angry with him, then. He shook his head. _Focus!,_ he scolded himself. _Quit being such a drama king over every single mood of his._ He thought of Gally being put in the Slammer, and felt elation spread through his body. He was more than willing to slam the door closed and throw the key into the Maze himself.

Newt nodded. "The shank threatened to kill you, and I'm making bloody sure it never happens again. Shuck-face's gonna pay a heavy price for acting like that —he's lucky I... We don't Banish it." He bit his carrot again, and seemed to think of something. "Remember what I told you 'bout order," he quickly added.

"Yeah." Gally would only hate him more after being thrown in jail. Surprisingly, the thought of it didn't creep him out, as it had before. It was a mere certainty. _I'm not scared of that guy anymore._

They finished their lunches without any further talking, distractedly looking at the working Gladers. When they were done, Newt stood up and stretched his arms over his head. His T-shirt went up, showing a pale torso and a perfectly round belly button. Thomas looked away immediately, and riveted his eyes on a random tree, feeling his cheeks —and his entire body— react to that simple image. 

_Thomas, for God's sake! Calm down! It's just a shucking belly button!,_ he told himself.

_Yeah. But what a belly button.  
_

_Shut it._

_As if I  —we— could._

"Argh," he grunted. He felt frustration boil inside of him —he wasn't even able to control his own thoughts. He furiously chewed his lip, battling to recover the control. "Come on."

"Uh?" Newt lowered his arms and looked at him, curious. "Did you say somethin'?"

Shaking his head, Thomas focused on making the blush —and every other reaction Newt had provoked— go away. _Frypan cooking. Chuck sleeping with his mouth open. No, it has to be something harder... Gally showering. EW! That should be enough for the rest of my life. Eeeek._ "Nope. Nothing at all." He had managed to keep his body under control, but he had to pay a heavy price for it —the image he had evoked made him want to vomit the sandwich and the vegetables.

Newt arched an eyebrow. "You look sick." When Thomas shook his head again, he shrugged. "Whatever. Okay, here's how it'll play out, Tommy. You're with me the rest of today —I need to figure out things. _We. We_ need to. Slim it." Thomas tried to ignore the roaring dragons in his stomach at that _we_. _Think of Gally, think of bloody Gally!_ "Tomorrow, the Slammer. Then you're Minho's, and I want you to stay away from the other shanks for a while. Got it?"

The last part was music to Thomas' ears. Almost full loneliness sounded like paradise. He'd have time to figure out what on Earth was going on with him and those stupid animals in his stomach. _I know, though,_ he thought, _but I don't want to face it._ "Sounds charming," he answered, pushing his thoughts aside. "So Minho's going to train me?"

 

Over the next half hour, Thomas managed to stay calm, even with the huge amount of visual contact Newt insisted on making. They did talk about important things —how every Changed people seemed to remember Thomas and, putting it in Newt's words, _he wasn't plantin' flowers and helpin' old ladies cross the street._ How the Glade had felt vaguely familiar to him when he first opened his eyes to his new life. How all he had wanted when he got there was to be a Runner. How he must try to keep looking for useful memories.

But he wasn't able to fully focus. He was still bugged by other doubts —sentimental doubts, he finally admitted. He couldn't act normal when he was around Newt. His thoughts went wild, and he was unable to stop cascades of imaginary situations from falling. His stomach made its own revolution, and all blood he had went up to his cheeks. And maybe some dropped to other parts. 

Everything Newt said, he agreed. He could've talked about Banishing himself, and his stupid feelings would have agreed before his mind got rational and thought about it. He had to make an actual effort to reflect on things and not just support Newt. 

He didn't own his heart anymore.

And the worst was that he perfectly knew who did.

 

"Hey, Clint," Newt nonchalantly greeted, entering the girl's room in the Homestead. Thomas followed, lost in his thoughts. "She surviving?"

"Yeah," Clint nodded. "She talks in her sleep all the time, though. We think she'll come out of it soon. Hopefully."

That snapped Thomas out of his spiral of complicated and mixed emotions. He had never truly considered the possibility that the girl might ever wake up and talk to people, and that made him nervous. He didn't know why.

"... She keeps saying _his_ name over and over."

 _Seriously, Thomas, you have to stop getting so absorbed by your thoughts._ He felt his soul fall down in the dumps. Why everyone seemed to know him? How did he know the girl? He hadn't seen her in his visions, yet. _  
_

_Visions. Newt.  
_

_FOCUS.  
_

"It's okay —he can hear whatever I hear," Newt told Clint. Thomas realised only then that the Med-jack had doubted before talking.

_FO. CUS.  
_

"Get us a report of all she says, okay?" Clint nodded, and left them alone with the girl. "Pull up a chair," Newt told thomas, sitting on the edge of the bed. 

Thomas desperately wanted to break the memory barrier and be useful for once. He stared at the girl, wishing he could remember something about her. Or about his past before the Maze. He thought about the visions. In them, he knew what was going to happen to Newt, and he knew... Things about the people he... He... He worked for. 

He opened his eyes wide.

_He worked for the creators of the Maze._

"Anything rings a bell? Anything at all?" Newt asked. _Yes,_ Thomas thought, _but how could I ever tell you that... That I collaborated in putting you guys here?  
_

He didn't say anything. He instead kept on looking at the girl, desperately trying to remember. He remembered her eyes, bluer than anyone else's. But they became warm brown. A sudden wave of fear clenched his stomach, and he felt his nerves activate. He quickly passed to another feature. Her black hair, her perfect white skin, her full lips... Those lips betrayed him. As he looked at them, he thought of _other_ lips. 

He stood up, unable to remain seated. Newt looked at him with expectation, his eyes shining. "What? Who is she? Any memory?"

"I do know her," Thomas admitted, trituring his inner cheek. "Something clicked —I know her from somewhere." He rubbed his eyes, tired. At least he had something to focus on. He tried hard, but nothing else came to his mind.

"Well, keep bloody thinking —don't lose it. Concentrate."

"I'm trying, so shut up." _And let me stop thinking of you, bloody shank. I even got your stupidly adorable British slang._ "I just don't—"

 

_Teresa._

 

Thomas jolted up from the chair, knocking it backward. He had heard...

"What's wrong?" Newt asked. "Did ya remember somethin'?"

"I... Newt, did you just say something before I stood up?"

The boy arched his eyebrows, crossing his arms. Thick muscles tensed. He stared at Thomas with a weird look, as if he were trying to decide whether the boy was nuts or not. "No," he said, as if it were obvious.

"I just thought... Did... Did _she_ say something?"

Newt's eyes lit up. "Her? No. Why? What did you hear?"

Thomas was scared to admit it. "It... I swear I heard a name. Teresa."

_Thomas._

This time, he jumped from the chair and landed as far from the bed as possible, knocking over the lamp on the table. It crashed into the floor. It was a voice. A girl's voice. He _had_ heard it. He _knew_ he had heard it. 

"What's bloody wrong with you?" Newt asked. "Tommy, are you alright?"

Thomas felt a hot flush as his heart raced. The thumps were all he heard. Acid went up his stomach, burning his throat. "She's... She's freakin' _talking_ to me. In my head. She... She just said my name, I swear! I... hear her voice in my head, or something. It's not exactly a voice, but... I _hear her!_ "

Newt advanced towards him, and put a hand on his forearm. It sent chills all through Thomas' body, which didn't contribute to calm him down. "Tommy, sit your butt down. _What_ are you bloody talking about?"

 

_Tom, we're the last ones. It'll end soon. It has to._

 

He _could_ hear those words. They didn't sound like they were coming from the room, from outside his body —yet he _heard_ them. They were literally _inside_ his mind.

 

_Tom, don't freak out on me._

 

He couldn't accept this, couldn't take it. He squeezed his eyes shut, and covered his ears with his hands. He had too much on his plate.

 

_My memory's fading already, Tom. I won't remember much when I wake up. We can pass the Trials. It has to end. They sent me as a trigger._

 

Thomas couldn't take it anymore.

 

 _Everything is going to change,_ she went on.

 

Thomas ignored Newt's voice, finally able to do such a thing, and slammed the door open. He ran downstairs, went out the front door and kept on running. Though she didn't shut up. He got further and further away from the Homestead, yet the voice didn't go away. It was like having a special antenae in his mind which received her messages, no matter how far he got. He ran to the East Door, sprinted through it, out of the Glade, and kept going, corridor after corridor. No rules. He sunk into the heart of the Maze, but still couldn't escape the voice.

_It was you and me, Tom. We did this to them._

_To us.  
_

_And to your Newt, too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An important one! Thomas realised that he's falling for Newt. He shuckin' realised. I myself want to jump and scream and fangirl around >. What about you? I love hearing your thoughts, so don't hesitate to comment! Also, thanks for all the support! Loads of love and ice-cream xxx


	19. Not an easy journey (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Thomas is our hero—but Newt's days aren't easy, either. What's it like to be in the Glade's second-in-command's skin?

Newt found him in the depths of the forest, still sweaty, lying under a tree. His head was slightly tilted to the right, resting on his shoulder, and the muscles of his face, which were usually contracted in tension, fear or concentration, appeared completely relaxed now, confering him an innocent and calmed expression. 

He couldn't help smiling. Biting the side of his lower lip, he bent besides Thomas, and carefully pushed some strands of dark hair away, caressing the boy's forehead with pale fingertips as he moved his hand. His cheeks were slightly puffed; Newt guessed that he had run into the Maze. Taking into account his fixation with the hell that surrounded the Glade, it was more than probable.

Sighing, he was about to shake Thomas awake when he thought about it twice. He had gone through many things during the last days; and if it had already been harsh for Newt himself, he couldn't imagine how it must be being a Greenie and not knowing a thing about his new home. Thomas was truly strong to endure what he was enduring, and Newt admired him for it. 

Admiration... Was it what he felt? Yes, at least partly. But there was something else going on. Something more... Intense. Something that was waking up inside of him, and that he was afraid of letting go. Something that promised to be wonderful, but that could destroy his already fragile existence in the Glade.

He shook his head, and bent down in front of Thomas, his back facing the sleeping boy. He threw his arms over his shoulders; his dark-haired head fell over his right clavicle immediately. Snorting, Newt passed his own arms under Thomas' legs, and gritted his teeth as he lifted him. Jumping slightly, he made sure that Thomas' weight was well distributed so as not to hurt his back, and he began walking towards the Homestead.

Thomas breathed lightly and steadily, and Newt could feel his warm breath on his ear and cheek as the boy inhaled and exhaled. It made it even harder to erase the smile from his face; it enlarged it instead. Even though he had denied it to death in the Gathering, he was getting used to being like that with Thomas. Sharing their things, helping each other out, having visions. Occasionally hugging. Not that he would ever admit it, but he actually enjoyed the Greenie's presence.

When they reached the Homestead, Newt had to make an extra effort to tiptoe between the sleeping Gladers, who were spread everywhere. You knever knew how many of them there were until you tried to traverse their sleeping zone. He finally managed to find Thomas' hammock and sat on it, allowing himself to rest for a moment before carefully letting Thomas' body slip backwards. He cupped his hands around his cheeks, and placed his head over the upper part of the hammock. 

He waited another second before standing up, just looking at the boy's face, which emmited a pale gleam under the moonlight. He could've stared at him for ages, and wouldn't have ever felt any urge to do another thing; but he had to sleep well. His boys had finally found Gally in the forest, and he would have to judge him the next day. It wasn't going to be an easy journey.

 

"Hey! Morning, Newt," Minho greeted him, patting his shoulder. "Got some work, right?"

"Yep," Newt answered, groggily rubbing his eyes. "The Gally slinthead was in the forest. Gotta judge him today."

The Keeper of the Runners shook his head. "I don't know why you're that tolerant with him. I would've kicked his ass outta here after what he said in the Gathering."

Shrugging, Newt looked away. The sun shyly peered over the walls of the Maze, bathing the Glade in a golden light. Seeing it dyed in orange and yellow tones, no one would've said that the Glade was such a dangerous and desperating place. "I know. But I can't do that —the shuck-face has some allies."

Minho frowned. "Who cares? Let him try to befriend the Grievers —let's see if he can." Despite his dark mood, Newt smiled, shaking his head.

"Sounds good. Good luck today, shank."

The Runner let out a bitter laugh. "As if that ever worked."

Newt watched him as he ran into the Maze and disappeared. After, he turned and didn't look back.

 

"All I want is one normal day —one day to relax," Thomas was telling Chuck. Frypan's breakfast had already been eaten up when Newt entered the place, and everyone was carrying their plates to the counter. 

The Glade's second-in-command smiled. "Then your bloody wish is granted," he said. When Thomas turned and saw his smile, Newt could've sworn that his face lit up. The boy's own grin made Newt feel like the world was okay again. "Come on, ya buggin' jailbird," he said. "You can take it easy while you're hangin' in the Slammer. Let's go. Chucky'll bring ya some lunch at noon."

Thomas nodded, as if he had just thought of that. "Suddenly, that sounds like paradise."

 

"So, Gally. Hiding at Deadheads is dishonourable enough to kick your ass out of here, but the reasons behind that are even more hideous." Newt slowly walked in circles in the Gathering room, under the alert eyes of Zart, Frypan and Winston. Gally, sat on a wooden chair, clenched his fists as he listened to what the boy was saying. "You've threatened to kill another Glader and Keeper, Minho. You've harassed another Glader for reasons that aren't legit at all, nor any of your business. You've behaved like a lunatic, and endangered us all with your attitude. Give me a bloody reason why I shouldn't Banish you right away."

Gally pressed his lips together before answering. "I hid because everyone wanted my head. When I threatened Minho, we were all very pissed, and my words were obviously fueled by anger, just like everyone else's. I didn't harass anyone, either. I just pointed out evident facts—"

Newt punched a wall, enraged. He was sick of Gally's flattery. "Quit the polite façade, Gally! It's no mystery why you menaced Minho, as you two've always been like two roosters in a henhouse. But you insulted Thomas basin' your nasty opinion in a matter that's none of your business —and one you know nothin' about."

The Keeper stood up, his face bright red. "You know as well as I do that he's drooling over you, Newt! But you like the attention, don't you? You like having someone paying attention to you, huh?"

"Gally..." Frypan stepped towards the boy, raising his arms as a warning. "I think you'd better shut up."

"I won't lose my home because of this... Aberrant thing!" Gally screamed. "Listen, guys, I've seen the Thomas guy before, during the Changing, and he's not what you think. He's not the hero you all wish for, not by far. He's with _them!_ "

Newt lost it.

He quickly approached Gally, and grabbed him by the neck of his dirty T-shirt. Riveting his eyes, he spoke in a quiet voice, making sure that the other boy heard each of his words. "Your stupid hatred," he spitted, "is the only aberrant thing 'ere. Thomas is just as amnesiac as we all were, and is the only one who's still hopeful enough to try to get our asses out of this bloody Maze you call home. I don't give a klunk about his past —just as I don't give a klunk about yours, Minho's or Alby's. I care about the present —and, right now, he's far better than you are."

Letting go of him, Newt crossed the room and sat, trying to calm down. He felt a hand over his shoulder, followed by Frypan's distinctive sigh.

"I say we dissolve this mock Gathering until we're all Keepers here," the cook carefully said. "We'll take the decision then, through fair voting."

Winston and Zart looked at each other before nodding. "Fair enough."

Newt snorted, seeing red. They were right. He couldn't just kick Gally out of the Glade, though he would've loved to. It was against the Rules. It would make chaos run wild. 

"Alright. But I want him surveilled twenty-four seven."

With another sigh, Frypan nodded. "I'll take good care of him."

Unhappy with the result of the session, Newt harshly nodded, grunting. He had thought that it was impossible to hate Gally even more than he did before Thomas' arrival, but he had been wrong. His previous hate had been nothing but a mere candlelight compared to the bonfire that burned inside of him now.

 

"Havin' fun, Greenie?" he asked. 

"Well. At least it's quiet here," Thomas answered, shrugging. Newt grinned with a crooked smile, looking away. 

"Don't ya worry. 'Ts almost over, and then you'll be a super Runner. Just as you wished."

Thomas smiled as well. "I'm dying to! How did the day go?"

_Well, I got in a terrible row with Gally, I found out that our strawberries are all dry and I spent all day tryin' to figure out why you make me grin so much and make me feel like there's a thousand fireworks in my stomach. What 'bout yours?_

"It wasn't bad," he said instead. "Though it pales in comparison with a journey down there, obviously."

When the boy laughed, he thought his heart had skipped a beat. "Please. You _envy_ me right now. You wish you could be down here."

 _I do,_ Newt thought, _but not in the way you think._

_Never in the way people think._

 

That same night, Newt couldn't quite sleep. His mind wouldn't stop thinking of what Gally had said. Not because they infuriated him, but... _"You know as well as I do that he's drooling over you, Newt! But you like the attention, don't you? You like having someone paying attention to you, huh?"_

Was that true? Did he just talk to Thomas and defend him because the boy was on his side? **No.** The answer was firm and clear. It wasn't that interested... But... He did like having Thomas paying attention to him. He liked seeing him smile and hearing his laughter. He enjoyed his quirky sense of humour, and the way he always thought about everything. He adored the slight frown in his forehead when he was concentrating, and the light in his eyes when he was happy or excited. He was head over heels about Thomas' open mind and attitude, his interest, his determination.

He tossed and turned on his bed, suddenly uncomfortable.

Thomas wasn't the only one drooling over someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's in love now! (Except for Gally —he doesn't have the slightest drop of love inside of him) Our lovebirds now have to get together —will they? Won't they? What'll happen? Soon here, in NV... Or maybe not! :)


	20. Two lovely shanks (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt can't sleep, and he decides to go out and stargaze to try to find some ease in the nightsky—instead, his emotions tackle him hard. He is unsure whether he can take the Glade anymore, and certain that he can't deal with all the things going on around him the way he's always done...

After what must have been a good half an hour of turning and kicking the sheets, Newt finally gave up sleeping. Too many things occupied his mind, and his thoughts were too loud to ignore them. But he didn't want to pay attention to them, either. Thinking about Thomas, the dead Griever, a dying Alby, stupid Gally and his own depression? No, thanks. He'd rather throw himself from the Maze's walls... _Again._ The familiar pain shot through his whole leg, as if the memory had awaken it.

Stretching his arms over his head, he decided to go for a night walk. It couldn't harm anyone, and maybe he'd see things in a different way under the moonlight. Or maybe he wouldn't, but at least he'd be nippier than trapped in his room. 

The stairs creaked when he went down them, and even though it was far from his own, a muffled whine coming from Alby's room reached him. He knew it was Alby's, and also that he couldn't do anything to help him out. It was sickening, having to just watch —or hear, in this case. Shaking his head, he exited the Homestead, trying to get as far as possible from the boy, his room and his thoughts.

 

Starlight welcomed him, playing with his blonde hair and pale skin. He went to the forest at first, and presented his respects to the tombs in Deadheads, but then his feet took a different path to exit the forest and he ended up staring at the mass of asleep Gladers. Looking at them as if they were mines, Newt suddenly realised what he was doing —where he was going. Even though he wouldn't have had any trouble recognising Thomas' silhouette among the crowd, he banned himself from doing so, furious with himself. He set for the west wall, where a fallen trunk offered him a surprisingly comfortable seat, and then mentally yelled at himself.

_Okay. Let's put facts straight. There's a bunch of issues I didn't want to think about, but I clearly can't help doin' so. The friggin' Thomas, that Gally slinthead, Alby, the Griever. It may be better to just let myself think 'bout them, to get them out of my head as soon as possible..._

_Argh. I just hate life.  
_

There he sat, thinking. Thomas? Okay, next. Gally? They had to do something to put him back into his place. Some punishment that brought old Gally back, the one who hadn't been stung and was something even close to a good chap. Alby? He had tried to strangle himself, but apparently for talking about what he had seen during the Changing. And the boy had learned his lesson. He wouldn't do it again, thus he was safe. Unless he went nuts and wanted to suicide, he was safe. The Griever. They should investigate the dead one, and then the Griever Hole Minho had told him about. It may hide something that got them closer to exiting the Maze. You clearly couldn't get out by throwing yourself off a cliff, but maybe there was something.

And then he ran out of topics.

He looked up, but the skies hadn't paled the tiniest bit. He felt less hollow as he stared at the stars, as if his problems were as tiny as they were. Night always made him feel that way. Not like life was actually worth something, but at least he didn't fancy killing himself, just to stop sadness and boredom. _I must have been a vampire in my previous life,_ he thought. _Wait, what's a vampire? No idea._

Previous life... He had been able to remember very vague things about the world before the Maze through intensive concentration. There was some kind of barrier in his mind that didn't let him reach his memories, as if they were stored in a money box with a very small slot, but he had been able, by shaking the box, to get some general knowledge out of it. Things like knowing that the world was called the Earth, that it had seasons, that it was divided into continents or that he once lived in a place called London. That the Maze wasn't in London, but in something called United States. A very old lady for whom he felt great respect, called Queen. 

Would he ever get to remember the old world fully? He hoped so. But maybe it was impossible. Maybe the memories weren't stored in a money box, but had been erased. Or maybe he would never find the key to open the box, or a hammer to break it. The visions were the nearest thing to getting memories back he had ever had..., yet he was afraid of them. Of what they brought.

Ta-daah! Thomas again. Why did that boy always pop up in his mind when he expected it the least? It was annoying. Like the universe wouldn't allow him to properly focus. 

"Why are you here?"

And talking about the Devil. 

 

Thomas sat besides him on the trunk, his curious brown eyes fixed on Newt. He let out a small yawn, which took him by surprise, and immediately covered his mouth. "I'm sorry," he said. "I had a nightmare and couldn't sleep anymore, yet my body still feels tired. It's ridiculous. I feel like sleeping for the rest of my days, but I can't fall asleep."

"Shame on the hormones, then," Newt said, smiling. He immediately frowned. What were the hormones? Why did he remember that they could be used in that context, but not what they were? His annoyance doubled. "What a night owl you are, Tommy. After such days, I would've slept for at least a century before even thinking of waking up."

"Well, not for a century," Thomas answered. He grinned, and it seemed to light his face up. "I'm going to be a Runner in some hours!"

Newt snorted. "Yeah. A sleepy one that will stumble upon every bloody pebble there is. Nice start."

An elbow pinched his side. "Hey! I'm not _that_ sleepy, shank."

"You will. Trust me," Newt assured him. "Anyway, if you really want to be a Runner, you should have some things in mind. For example, make sure you tie those shoes. It may be stupid, but trust me, it's just as important as havin' stamina. I once stepped on a loose lace. Next thing I knew,  Med-jacks were bandaging my head."

"That explains many things," Thomas joked.

"Ha, ha. Very funny, Greenie." Newt gave him a dirty look. "Also, check the bloody watch. It's fun at first, I know, running, unfolding the Maze's secrets —but you need to remember that time is never stopping. There was this time, when I was so filled with adrenaline... I saw that I must have gotten back an hour ago when I had five minutes left until the doors closed. Never run more in my entire life. The buggin' doors literally closed behind me. Alby lectured me for ages."

Thomas laughed at that —Alby lecturing Newt—, but he then frowned. "Wait —you were a Runner?"

Arching his eyebrows, Newt didn't answer. Not at first. He waited for the old wave of pain and desperation to come —surprisingly, it never appeared. Just a vague homesickness. "I was," he confirmed, carefully nodding. "And a bloody good one, obviously."

"And?"

"And what?"

Thomas threw up his arms. "Why did you give up running? It's better than staying here all day."

Well, maybe pain wasn't _fully_ over. His heart fluttered at the question. "Well..."

Did he trust him enough to tell him his secret? Was it safe? Would Thomas tell? Newt closed his eyes for a second before answering.

"I didn't really give up running. It was bigger than that. I directly gave up life."

Silence. Thomas blinked, waiting for him to continue. Newt looked up at the stars.

"What? Cut it!" he finally protested.

"Why would you do such a thing?" Thomas asked, completely serious. "Why would _you_ want to give up life?"

A bitter laugh came out from Newt's throat. "Why would _I_ want to continue living? You've been here for less than a week and already know that this isn't for you. 'I can't pull weeds all day'. Imagine being here for two years. Imagine waking up every day, knowing that it'll be exactly the same as the previous and the next ones, without anything you look forward to. Imagine not having any goal in life, nor any reason to carry on. Imagine seeing how some partners die, and how no one can find a bloody clue about why we're here. Just imagine all that for a second, for a bloody second, and tell me to my face that you wouldn't have climbed up that wall and jumped."

He didn't realise that he was crying until he sniffed. He felt worse than he had felt over the whole last year in the Glade. The void menaced to swallow everything he had desperately tried to built, every reason he had tried to find to carry on, and he didn't know if he was strong enough to stop it. He actually doubted he was.

"Newt," Thomas gently called him. He didn't answer. "Newt," he repeated. He was lost in his thoughts and self-pity. It was easier than trying to snap out of depression, anyway. Listening to the voices in his head that said that everything was meaningless was much easier than growing some gut and trying to shut them up. "Newt," Thomas called for the third time.

Newt felt something warm covering him, like a homemade blanket, and winked. He wasn't cold, but his body welcomed the sudden change. Only after a few seconds he realised that Thomas was hugging him again. It wasn't like the previous time. When Thomas hugged him after Alby's thing, Newt felt some butterflies in the stomach and a wave of solace, but that had been it. Now, there was a whole Maze of Grievers in there, and all his nervous endings were on fire. Newt knew he should have worried about the sudden evolution of his reactions to Thomas, but the contact was too good. It was what he had needed for so long.

"I don't know if I would have jumped then, in your situation," Thomas carefully began, "because I have never felt that way. There has always been something that I wanted to achieve, and that got me through the days, so I can't imagine what it's like. Now, thanks to you, I know that it's a blessing. But I wouldn't jump now, even if things got awful and Gally tried to burn me at a stake. I would never hurt myself, Newt, and not because I'm brave or anything, but because last time I did something dangerous —when I jumped into the Maze—, I saw your pain. And it was so vast, so immense, that I knew I'd never do something like that again, just to avoid ever making you feel that way."

 _Shank,_ Newt thought. _He wants to make me cry.  
_

"It seems like it didn't work, though —are you alright?" Newt felt him shake his head. "Wait, that's a stupid question. Argh. What can I do? I'll bring some food or something. I have the feeling that food helps. Specially cold food."

"Thomas," Newt called. "Just shut up for a bloody second. That's more than enough."

The boy coughed, but didn't say anything. Newt moved his upper body until he found a comfortable spot on Thomas' chest. Once he did, he felt like just lying there forever. Thomas' sternum wasn't bony —unlike his—, and the smooth valley there, between the ribs, was just perfect. It was as if the Lord had modelled it thinking of Newt's head and how could it fit there. _Thanks, evolution. You did an amazing job here._

"It's funny," Thomas said. "We always end up comforting each other. It's like we're destined to be mutual therapists or something."

"Mutual therapists?" Newt didn't look up, because that would mean leaving the paradise hidden in Thomas' chest, but he rolled his eyes. "Bloody hell, that's awful. It sounds terrible. There's only so much poetry you can spit."

When Thomas' body slightly bounced as he laughed, the Glader's second-in-command felt a stupid grin spreading through his face and deforming his factions. "Thank you so much, sir," the boy said, mocking a British accent. "I will take that into account for the next time."

"Your accent is awful as well."

"You're a lovely shank."

Another smile. "I know."

"A shank that should have more self-confidence and know that he'll get his ass out of here and have a bright future. I don't know, a house somewhere, a dog, blonde kids with that thick British accent. Some traditional klunk like that."

Newt laughed, though the part about the kids wasn't very realistic. To have children, you have to get a woman in the equation. But the person he wanted to get in his life equation didn't have breasts nor a high-pitched voice, thank you very much. More like the opposite.

"However. Seriously, Newt, you need to stop saving things to yourself, because you end up hurting your own feelings. And also..." Thomas stopped dead, and coughed. "Whatever. If you ever feel like that again, about to explode, or just want to talk to anyone, I repeat, _talk to me._ I'm more than willing to listen, so stop sinking in your own self-pity, grow some gut and tell me whenever you're down again. You'll never move on if you try to always walk alone."

After finishing, Thomas lifted his head, pushing his chin upwards, and tenderly kissed his forehead. The veiled telling off and the lovely gesture made Newt feel fragile again, like his heart was made of glass and words could crack them down to shards of pain and sadness. He buried his face in Thomas' chest, taking advantage of that it was dead of night and no one was watching, and listened to his strong and even heartbeat until he calmed down and the world became a slightly better place. A part of him felt weak for letting someone see him like that, and specially Thomas, but... 

Somehow, being weak was alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, diabetes for everyone! :D No, but seriously—I've been way too hopelessly romantic these days, plus every fanfic needs an all-fluff chapter, so yeah, here it is! I personally aaawed a lot while writing it, so I hope you liked it as well! (Don't worry —things aren't going to be this soapy for the rest of the story! *Insert evil grin here*) I love you all, guys, you're awsome! Merry Newtmas to everyone! ^^


	21. A packed day for ivy artists (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an open-heart conversation at late night, Thomas and Newt wake to... The same Glade. Both of them have many things to do today—from investigating a fugitive to the first serious run across the Maze. But how sweet is it to put their journeys in common after the day's over?

_It feels sweet. Though he has been working for hours today and his lips are all chapped and dry, they are soft and tender against my cheek. I love it when he does that. There are many people that kiss in the lips, but only so many that do so on the cheek or on the forehead. It feels truer._

_"I swear that I'll try to..., no, that_ I'll _get you out of there," he tells me, caressing the side of my face as he pulls backwards a lock of hair. "Don't give up, Newt. Don't give up for me. I'll be watching you from here, and I'll protect you from any harm, but you have to promise that you won't give up. Because I won't be able to keep you from that."_

_I nod, sad at the reminder that this is our goodbye. Tommy has told me that my memories will be wiped, so I won't remember this at all. But maybe if I promise it, if I try my best at remembering his words and my oath, it'll survive. I have to hide it in a corner of my brain to which bloody W.I.C.K.E.D. has no access, and keep it safe.  
_

_His hands touch my wrist, and I feel something cold clinging around it. When I look down, I see a goldish shine on my pale skin: it's a bracelet. From a diminute, wide plaque depart countless small balls in a chain that closes the jewel around my wrist and keeps it from falling. The small sheet of metal has something carved on it: I take a closer look, and realise that it's Thomas' access plaque, the one he has been using all this time to sneak into this room and visit me.  
_

_This is the last thing Tommy will give me before I'm sent there. I must fight to protect it. I must be ready to give everything I have to save it from oblivion. I don't care if I have to die, or bring down some of these bloody people with me. But I'm going to protect this bracelet. I'm going to protect us._

 

When Newt woke up, he realised that he must have fallen asleep looking into Thomas' eyes, because he had dreamt of a vision. It was crystal clear in his memory, unlike his regular dreams. He raised his right arm, rubbing his eyes with the left hand, and noticed something he hadn't seen before.

A golden bracelet. A bit rubbed and covered in dirt, but still shiny.

Taking a closer look, he realised that it had Thomas' name and a long series of dots and bars carved on. The code of access. The vision was real, then. They all were.

He felt bad for never noticing it before. How could you wear such a thing without being aware? He started to clean it with his thumb, dusting it off. After a few seconds, he took his sheets and rubbed the bracelet with them, hoping that it would accelerate the cleaning proccess. 

He jumped to his feet, and peered through the window. The sun was already up—how come he had woken up that late?—, so Thomas and Minho must have entered the Maze already. 

Thomas. 

What a boy.

Newt felt a nervous tickle in his stomach as he remembered last night. He felt ashamed, at first, for having acted like such a girl—telling Tommy about his attempt of suicide, all the hugging and the kiss thing—, but he couldn't stop an unexpected, warm happiness that took over soon. He felt better than he had in ages, and all thanks to that shank. A shank that must have carried him to his bed, because he didn't remember entering the Homestead and making his way to his bedroom. Yet another point in his favour.

He smiled, resting his chin on his arms and these on the windowframe, feeling the pebbly texture of the rock and the warmth of the sunlight in his skin. _Have a nice day,_ he thought. Only then he remembered that he had a packed day, as well. The Gladers seemed to have agreed on messing around as much as possible lately. _Edit: have a better day than mine._

 

"So, Chuck," Newt said, scribbling on his notepad, "ya said you've seen Gally?"

"Yes," the boy nodded. "When I went to the showers this morning, early to have all the hot water for me... Sorry, guys, but I always have to deal with the freezing one... He was there, in the baths. When he saw me, he tried to punch me, and after he sent me flying against one of the showers, he told me to tell you that he won't let Thomas ruin everything he has worked for. He looked pretty angry," the kid added, shivering. He bent down and used his left hand to retire some hair from the back of his head, revealing a pretty bad-looking injury. 

_It must hurt,_ Newt thought, looking at the child. His fury only grew. Gally was already the best-positioned candidate for the next Banishing, but he was also on his way to being the greatest slinthead ever. "Do you know where he went next?"

Chuck shook his head. "I saw him running away, towards the forest, but I can't tell exactly where. For all I know, he could be in my sleeping bag now, waiting for me to get back." The kid nervously wriggled his hands, looking away. Taking his notepad down, Newt walked to him and awkwardly patted his back.

"Don't ya worry, Chucky—I'll find that shuck-face and make sure he doesn't touch a single hair of yours nor anyone's."

Awkwardness reached a whole new level when the boy hugged him. "Thank you so much!"

"Yeah, yeah, welcome, but get off me," Newt murmured, feeling uneasy. He turned his head to look at Frypan and Winston, who nodded and got out of the room. _I must find Gally before he does anything stupid and hurts someone._ By 'someone', Newt knew his heart meant 'Thomas'.

 

As Thomas followed Minho through the West Door into Section Eight, earlier that morning, he couldn't help feeling grand. He had a whole day to piece the Maze down, plenty ofth to remember to get back on time. What else could a Runner ask for? An awesome night like his? Well, he wasn't going to complain about that, either.hings to think about, brand new shoes ( _"They send new ones in the Box every so often. If we had bad shoes, we'd have feet that look like freaking Mars,"_ Minho said) and an amazing digital watch.

They finally reached a rectangular cut in a long wall to the north that looked like a doorway without a door. Minho ran straight through it, without stopping. "This leads from Section Eight to Section One. Like I said, this passage is always in the same spot, but the route here might be a little different because of the walls rearranging themselves." Nodding, Thomas followed him, and they ran down a long corridor.

As they made their way through the Maze, Minho explained him how he made the Maps. "Every fifth turn, I write something down to help me later, mostly just related to stuff from yesterday—what's different today. Then I can use yesterday's Map to make today's. Easy-peasy, dude." Thomas discovered that he also used what the Maze offered him to mark the route they had taken. He cut a big piece of ivy off the wall every once in a while, like Hansel and Gretel's bread crumbs, and threw it behind without even slowing down. After a few chunks, he told Thomas to do it himself.

"What?" Thomas hadn't really expected anything besides running and watching on his first day.

"Cut the ivy now—you gotta get used to doing it on the run. We pick 'em up as we come back, or kick 'em to the side." Even though it took him a while to actually master it, Thomas was happy to have something to do.

After a while, Minho announced the breaktime, taking some water and an apple down. Thomas mimicked him, taking a long sip from his bottle and biting the apple, more than happy to follow Minho's orders. As he did so, he felt surprisingly refreshed. His mind snapped back to Alby, who had finally gotten better. He had freed him from the Slammer the last day, and they had even talked. "You never really told me what happened to Alby that day. Obviously the Griever woke up, but what happened?"

"Well, shuck thing wasn't dead," Minho said as he put his backpack on.

"And after... I just wonder where it went, where they always go, don't you? Haven't you ever thought of following them?" Thomas asked. He felt his mind churning, trying to get somewhere, but he didn't have a clue where to start.

"Man, you do have a death wish, don't you?" Minho mocked, turning. "Come on, we gotta go." And with that he started running.

Thomas followed, struggling to figure out what was crawling in the back of his mind. It was something about that Greiver, about where it hade gone once it sprang to life... But he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Frustrated, he put it aside and sprinted, letting his thoughts wander to other topics. The vision he had just had, for example, in which he had given Newt a golden bracelet. He felt something tickling his mind again. Realisation suddenly struck him: _The plaque had to do with the dead Griever and the place to which they went._ The how was a mystery, though he now knew that there was a relation between that bracelet and the resuscitated Griever. The fact that he had given Newt something related to the Grievers should've scared him, but he just goofily grinned at the mere thought of Newt and how he had allowed him to hug him.

They ran for two more hours, sprinkled with little breaks that, before Thomas' eyes, seemed to get shorter every time. Good shape or not, he was feeling the pain. 

Finally, Minho stopped and pulled off his backpack once more. They sat, leaning against the soft ivy as they ate lunch, neither of them talking much. Thomas took his time to eat, knowing that Minho would make them get up and go once the food disappeared. "Anything different today?" he finally asked.

Minho reached down and patted his backpack, where his notes rested. "Just the usual wall movements. Nothing to get your skinny butt excited about."

As Thomas took a long sip of water, he caught a flash of silver and red. Something that wasn't unknown to him. "What's the deal with those beetle blades?" he asked. They were everywhere. "And why do they have the word _wicked_ written on their backs?"

"Never been able to catch one." Minho put his lunch box away. "And we don't know what the word means—probably just something to scare us. But they have to be spies. For them."

 _Them._ The people he used to work for. Thomas shivered, remembering how, in his visions, he had been responsible for sending the Gladers to the Maze. 

"Can't wait to rip their—" Before the Keeper could finish, Thomas was on his feet and across the corridor. He had just noticed a dull glimmer of gray, about head high. He pulled apart the courtains of ivy, and stared at the square of metal riveted to the stone. He put his hand out to run his fingers across it.

**WORLD IN CATASTROPHE:**

**KILLZONE EXPERIMENT DEPARTMENT**

He read the words out loud, then looked back at Minho. "What's this?" Though he already knew what it was. _W.I.C.K.E.D._

"I don't know, shank. They're all over the place, like freaking labels for the nice pretty Maze they built," Minho snorted. He shook his head. "Let's go."

 

When they reached a dead end, it was finally time to go back. They reached a tall wall, which Minho insisted wasn't new, but more of the same. "People willing to send Grievers after us aren't gonna give us an easy way out," he said. "If you think we're gonna find a nice little gate that leads to Happy Town, you're smokin' cow klunk."

Oh, how it all sucked.

The rest of the day was a mere blur of exhaustion to Thomas. They had to run all the way back, and after the long trip to the end of the section, Thomas found himself fighting to search for the chunks of ivy. His watch assured that they had more than plenty of time to make it back to the Glade, but his tiredness said otherwise. He came to a point in which he just kept on putting one foot ahead of the other, following Minho's footsteps and praying to get out soon. 

When they reached the Glade, everyone stopped working to glance at them in dissimulation—though most didn't disguise at all. Thomas spotted Newt, working on the fields, and felt a grin spread through his face. He waved at him, happy to see the boy there. "Come on, lovebird," Minho mocked, "we still have some business to do."

That made Thomas snap out of his dreamy happiness to light up bright red. The Keeper was joking, but he didn't know that he had a point. Thomas prayed he didn't find out.

They went to the Map Room, wrote up the day's Maze route, compared it to the previous day's. Then there were the walls closing and the dinner. Chuck tried talking to him several times, but all Thomas could do was nod and shake his head, only half hearing. He was too tired.

"Gally's back," Chuck said at a certain point. "He slammed me against the showers' walls and menaced to go for you, Thomas. I'm afraid." 

The boy rembered his day in the Slammer. _Do you think I have parents?_ Chuck had asked him. _Of course you do, and they're out there, staring at the cruel world that took you from them. But you'll get back. I swear you will._ He had promised. Thomas couldn't let Gally touch Chuck.

"Chuck," he said, looking at him right in the eye. "I don't know what Gally told you exactly..."

"I've just told you," the kid protested. 

Thomas nodded, ashamed. "Well, yes, but you get the point. The thing is, he's not going to hurt you. As long as I'm around to protect you, he's not going to be able to lay a single finger on you, because if he dares do so, I'll kill him, okay? So don't worry."

A shy smile danced on Chuck's lips. "But what if he hurts _you_?" he asked.

"Well, then I'll need your help, won't I?" Thomas patted his head. The kid nodded in agreement, fully smiling now. "Don't worry, Chuck. That slinthead isn't going to go further than blabbering."  
  


He hugged the young boy, who nuzzled Thomas' arm with his nose, like a kitten. He felt something warm in his chest, and rested his head on top of Chuck's. He silently vowed to protect that boy, even at his own life's risk.

 

Before twilight faded to blackness, Thomas was already in his favorite spot in the forest, curled up against the ivy. He had borrowed a knife from Frypan's kitchen, remembering what Chuck had told him about Gally hiding in the forest. He hoped he wouldn't have to use it, of course, but he had to be ready. He just couldn't risk.

He thought about his day as a Runner, wondering if he could ever run again. It had felt... Monotonous, specially after Minho told him that they were the same sections, same places, same everythings all days. It seemed so pointless, after two years. Being a Runner had lost its glamour. After only one day.

"It's cold 'ere, Greenie. You're gonna freeze your ass here. Make room."

Thomas smiled, the sensation of disillusion fading. He moved aside, and Newt sat right besides him. He rubbed his arms and looked at him, some small clouds of breath exiting his mouth. _Shuck. Since when are clouds of breath so sexy?_ Wait. _Since when do you use the term "sexy" to describe a friend?_ Wait again. _Come on, Thomas, you already know he's more than a friend._

"So?" Newt asked, still grinning. "How was your first day as a Runner?"

"Well..." Thomas said. "I've learnt how to cut pieces of ivy as I run. You know, it's a unique skill you peasant guys can't even dream of."

Snorting, Newt mocked a bow. "Oh, milord, please teach me."

"You wish," Thomas playfully said. "It's a secret technique that must remain like that, a secret."

Newt laughed. Looking at him, Thomas suddenly thought that this Newt was not at all like the one who had broken in front of him before. This one was relaxed, quirky and witty, whereas the other one was tormented, melancholic and dark. He liked them both.

"Just so you know, Greenie," Newt said, "I used to do that, too. I cut the best pieces of ivy you can dream of. I'm telling you, I was an artist."

"An ivy artist. How romantic." Thomas had expected him to avoid his past as a Runner for at least a few days, but Newt startled him once again mentioning it nonchalantly. That boy was a box of surprises, really.

"It is, indeed. I can carve your face in an ivy chunk. I'm so good at it that you wouldn't be able to say which one's the ivy and which one's the actual Tommy." He rubbed his arms again. "Holy klunk, Thomas, I'm serious—this place's freezin'."

With another quick burst of laughter at Newt's red ears and nose, Thomas passed an arm around his shoulders, rubbing one. "You're such a cold-blooded," he said. "Luckily for you, I have a blanket. Thank me later, when you haven't been frostbitten by these mortal 65 degrees."

"Yeah, laugh at me," Newt grumbled, "but I won't be the one coughing all day due to pneumonia."

Thomas grabbed the folded blanket and gave it a good shake to extend it, covering Newt with the fabric. He placed his arms over the boy's shoulders to keep it in its place. "Better?" 

"Much, thanks," Newt said. "Oh, I forgot—when we... I got the last vision, I saw you giving me this." He raised an arm, and the golden bracelet shyly shone under the moonlight. "What do you think we can use it for?"

Again, there was something scratching Thomas' mind, something important, but he couldn't quite get to it... "I don't know," he admitted, frustrated. "But save it—I get the feeling that it's important."

"As if I could throw it away. There's no fashion here—do you know which level this puts me at? I'm not a peasant anymore if I wear a bracelet." He closed his eyes, resting his head on Thomas' shoulder. The latter's heartbeat ran wild, and the boy wondered, with a lump in his throat, whether Newt could hear the earthquake taking place in his chest. If he did, he didn't mention it.

 

_He rests his head on my shoulder as I hug him for the last time. I hope he'll be alright—I'll work 24/7 to ensure that, but there's only so much I can do. He'll have to face most of the things alone. All I can do is hack the Grievers to keep them away from him and little more. But he's strong. He can. I know he can.  
_

_I look at him, and his face awakes the usual tender in me. I couldn't have found a better person here. A better keeper of the key. I hope we don't have to use it, but... Maybe hope isn't useful at all in this hell. We must be prepared. And he's the readiest of us two.  
_

 

Thomas groggily snapped out of the vision, and started to fall asleep. He was somewhere very close to sleep when a voice spoke in his head—a pretty, feminine voice. It was as if there were a fairy goddess trapped in his skull. He vaguely thought that it might be some hallucination due to tiredness. But he heard it all the same, and remembered every word:

_Tom, I just triggered the Ending._

 


	22. When the Sun's away, the Grievers all play (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sun has disappeared from the sky, and the Glade is slowly but steadily collapsing. What does it mean? How are they going to survive now? Can they exit the Maze before they die? But problems never come alone; the girl starts her own buzz, there's a madman hot on his trail and Grievers have also broken loose. Can things turn worse?

When he opened his eyes, Newt immediately knew that something was wrong. His neck hurt from sleeping in a bad position, and he carefully tilted his head from side to side to stretch it. Standing up, he wrapped the blanket around Thomas, and looked at him tenderly before getting out of the forest and confirming his first impression: the sun was nowhere to be found. The sky was dull gray, and there was no sign of the king of it. He had only waken up because he was used to the Glade timetables.  
  
He let Thomas sleep, which was harder than he would ever admit to anyone, and headed to the Homestead, where Minho was also staring at the sky, his arms crossed. "Big shiny guy's not there," he said.  
  
"Good mornin' too," Newt answered, already missing Thomas. At least he would've greeted him. "Have you noticed it yourself? Such an amazing discovery, Minho."  
  
The Keeper snorted. "Quit the irony—something's terribly whacked here. I don't think it'll come out today, nor any other day."  
  
Frowning, Newt gazed at the cloudy sky. "What do you think is happenin'?" he asked. Minho shook his head.  
  
"Creators, maybe. This is klunky enough to be their stuff. But I don't know—whatever it is, it's no good. The rest will freak out, Newt. We have to find some excuse."  
  
"And what do you suggest to explain why the sun has disappeared?" The boy threw up his arms. "'Hey, folks, the sun's tired of bein' up there all day, so it went on vacation. Now move your asses and start pulling those weeds'?"  
  
"Whatever you want, but we have to tell them something!" Minho said, his voice tainted with urgence. "If we don't give them a good reason, we might get back to the Dark Days. Everyone going nuts, lads killing each other—complete chaos."  
  
Newt caressed his chin, thinking. "If this is something from the creators," he slowly said, "which it probably is, then there must be a reason why they'd do this. Maybe to make us hurry up with the search..."  
  
"What?" Minho asked. "Are you alright, dude? You're paler than chalk." He put a hand on Newt's shoulder, which was just as rigid as the rest of him.  
  
"The crops," he muttered. "If there's no sun, the plants will die. No plants, no animals. No plants and no animals, no food. We'll starve to _death_ , Minho. This has just turned into a race against the clock."  
  
Slowly, Minho digested that information. After two years of finding nothing, the deadline was set. The Gladers now have a very limited amount of time to do or die. He pressed his lips together, crackling his knuckles.  
  
They both looked up at the sky again, silent. "I need Thomas," Minho stated. "That guy may be our only way out of here."  
  
"What? How?" Newt asked. He felt a ridiculous pain in his stomach, one which made him want to punch Minho. Wait, why? He had never had any kind of problem with the Keeper, and Thomas wasn't his nor anyone's. He could go wherever, and be with whoever, he wanted.  
  
"Think about it—he scaped from a Griever, tricked him into dying, kept up with me all along. He has the wits and the legs. Who apart from him can help us with this? If there's a way out, then Thomas will find it. Trust me, I've seen him in action—he's our only hope."  
  
Newt blinked. He felt uncomfortable with the idea of Thomas constantly getting into the Maze. What if they didn't return in time? What if he had to face another night in there? What if he crossed paths with a Griever? What if he was Stung? What if, what if, what if? Minho was right, though—Thomas was the only one who seemed capable of getting them out of there. And, even if he completely hated the idea of him running down the Maze all day, he didn't have the right to ban him from doing so. Not when their salvation might depend on Thomas.  
  
"For everyone's sake," Newt mumbled, "I hope you're right."  
  
  
Thomas awoke to a weak, lifeless light. Rubbing his back, on which his awkward sleeping position was taking its toll, he first thought that must've gotten up earlier than usual, that dawn was still an hour away. But then he heard the shouts.  
  
When he looked through the branches, he saw it. The sky was complete and utterly grey—there was no sign of the natural morning light. He ran out of the forest and scanned it again, but it wasn't his imagination. There was no blue, no black, no stars, no moon, no nothing. Every inch of the sky was slate gray. He looked down to his watch—it was a full hour past his mandatory waking up time. Staring at the sky again, he finally gave up.  
  
The sun had disappeared.  
  
  
He found most of the Gladers around the Box, everyone talking at once. Their incredulity and fear floated in the air, thick and almost touchable, though Thomas didn't share them. A sun couldn't just disappear. That must mean that their sky, and their sun too, wasn't real, because you can't take a star off its place like that. Everything about the place was fake. Thomas didn't know how he knew, but it was the only reasonable explanation his mind would accept. Though, looking around, he acknowledged that none of the other boys had figured it out.  
  
"What do you think happened?" His look of fear pinched Thomas' heart. "Looks like a big gray ceiling."  
  
Thomas followed Chuck's gaze and looked up. "Yeah, makes you wonder about this place." Chuck had nailed it. The sky did look like a ceiling—the ceiling of a massive room. "Maybe something's broken. I mean, maybe it'll be back."  
  
Teresa's words echoed in his mind. Thomas, I just triggered the Ending. Was this what she meant? It couldn't be a coincidence. As he tried to calm Chuck down, he thought of the girl's voice. His gut told him that he was right.  
  
"Thomas!" Minho was running up to them. "Quit your leisure time with Chucky and let's get going. We're already late."  
  
Thomas was stunned. For some reason, he expected the weird sky to throw all normal plans out the window.  
  
"You're still going out there?" Thomas was thankful Chuck asked for him.  
  
"Of course we are, shank," Minho said. "If anything, this gives us even more reason to get our butts out there. If the sun's really gone, won't be long before plants and animals drop dead, too. I think the desperation level just went up a notch."  
  
A mixture of excitement and dread swept over him when he realized what Minho was saying. "You mean we're going to stay out there overnight?"  
  
Minho shook his head. "No, not yet. Maybe soon, though." He looked up towards the sky. "Man—what a way to wake up. Come on, let's go."  
  
  
They saw the Griever before they even reached the door connecting Section Eight to Section One. Minho was ahead of Thomas. He'd just rounded a corner when he slammed to a stop, jumping back and grabbing Thomas by the shirt, pushing him against the wall. "Shh," he shushed him when Thomas opened his mouth to complain. "There's a freaking Griever up there." He slowly leaned forward to take a peek at the monster. Thomas wanted to scream at him to be careful, though it didn't sound like the best thing to do right then.  
  
"What's it?" he asked when Minho's head jerked back.  
  
"It's just sitting up there—almost like that dead one we saw." His voice was still a whisper.  
  
Thomas tried to ignore the panic flaring inside him. "What do we do? Is it coming toward us?"  
  
Minho rolled his eyes. "No, idiot—I just told you it was sitting there."  
  
"Well? What do we do?"  
  
"We have to go that way to get to our section. Let's just watch it awhile—if it comes after us, we'll run back to the Glade," Minho concluded after several seconds of thinking. He took another peek. "Crap—it's gone! Come on!" He took off running towards where he had seen the Griever. Though his instincts were screaming at him not to, Thomas followed. He sprinted down the Keeper. At every turn, they slowed down so that he could look around the corner first. The run went on for ten minutes, until they came to the long hallway that ended at the Clif.  
  
Minho stopped so abruptly that Thomas almost ran him over. Then, after rubbing the arm he had hit Minho's shoulder blade with, he stared as the Griever spun forward to the Cliff's edge and threw himself off it, disappearing from sight.  
  
  
When they got back, a somber feeling gloomed over the Glade. Minho headed straight for the Map Room, startling Thomas. They had just made the discovery that might get them all out of there. "Aren't you dying to tell Newt and Alby about the Griever Hole?" Yes, Thomas thought. Specially Newt.  
  
After seeing the Griever disappear right before their eyes, the boys had discovered, with a session of hard rock-throwing, that there was a space in which the monsters disappeared. Thomas named it "The Griever Hole", and though they both imagined it as full of those nasty creatures, they also knew that it may be their only way out.  
  
"Hey, we're still Runners," Minho called, "and we still have a job." Which consisted of drawing up their Maps. Even though Thomas was dying to see Newt's reaction to the news about the Cliff, he obediently sat down and drew the day's Map. After fifteen minutes of work and Minho's continuous advice —'I think that hall was actually cut off here, not there', 'Watch your proportions' and his favourite, 'Draw straighter, you shank'—, Thomas smiled as he examined his Map. It was as good as any other one he had seen in the room.  
  
"Not bad," Minho said. "For a Greenie, anyway. Now, get over here. We're looking for patterns, here."  
  
Thomas felt something itching his mind, like he was missing an obvious hint or clue, but couldn't discover anything in those thousands of lines. The Maze walls, moving. Patterns. It had to mean something —he just couldn't make out what. He spent his good twenty minutes analyzing the Maps. Nothing.  
  
"You can always come back and study your butt off after dinner, after we talk to Newt and Alby. Come on," Minho finally said, tapping him on the shoulder.  
  
They had just stepped out of the Maze Room when Alby and Newt walked up. Thomas smiled and waved at them, but Newt didn't answer to his gesture. Thomas' stomach twisted. What was wrong? Apart from the grey sky, that was. Everything was well—more than well—last night.  
  
"Hey," Minho said. "We were just—"  
  
"Get on with it," Alby interrupted. "Ain't got time to waste. Find anything? _Anything_?"  
  
Minho looked more confuse than angry or hurt. "Nice to see you, too. Yeah, we _did_ find something."  
  
These were good news, though Alby looked oddly disappointed. "Cuz this whole shuck place is fallin' to pieces." He shot Thomas a dirty look, as if it were all his fault. Thomas' nervousism worsened, and he began shaking his leg, trying to get rid of all the adrenalyn and energy stress gave him. He looked at Newt, searching for his warm, calming gaze, but he didn't meet his eyes. What was happening? _What_?  
  
"What do you mean?" Minho asked. "What else happened."  
  
Newt finally moved, nodding towards the Box as he answered. "Bloody supplies didn't come today. Come every week for two years, same time, same day. But not today."  
  
All four of them looked over at the steel doors attached to the ground. Thomas quickly looked back at Newt, though, and his expression seemed to cast a shadow over them, darker than the gray sky.  
  
"We're shucked for good now," Minho whispered. His lack of cheekiness alerted Thomas of how grave the situation really was.  
  
"No sun for the plants," Newt said, "no supplies from the bloody Box—yeah, I'd say we're shucked, all right."  
  
Was that what happened to him? That didn't have to do with Thomas, and would explain his somber mood. Thomas hoped that it was the actual cause of Newt's weird attitude, although he couldn't help worrying that it was his fault. He needed to ask him. Just in case.  
  
Minho told them about the Griever Hole. He took three entire minutes to explain, from the Griever they followed to their rock-throwing session. "Must lead to where the... ya know... Grievers _live_ ," he finished.  
  
"Gotta bloody see that for myself," Newt said.  
  
"I don't know what we can do," Minho said. "Maybe we can block off that corridor..."  
  
"No way," Newt cut him. "Shuck things can climb the bloody walls, remember? _Nothing_ we could build could keep them out."  
  
  
A commotion outside the Homestead took their attention away from the conversation- A group of Gladers stood in front of the house, shouting to be heard over the racket. Chuck was there, too, and when he saw Thomas and the others he approached, excited. _What crazy thing has happened now?_ he wondered. That face was never good news.  
  
"She's awake!" Chuck yelled. "The girl's awake!"  
  
Thomas felt his body get suddenly cold, and he had to lean against the wall of the Map Room to avoid falling to the floor. The girl. The one who spoke in his head and left him cryptical messages about his past. He remembered her voice, and wanted to run away to never hear it again. Too late.  
  
_Tom, I don't know any of these people. Come get me! It's all fading... I'm forgetting everything but you... I have to tell you things! But it's all fading..._  
  
How the shuck did she do it? How did she slip inside his head?  
  
Teresa paused, and then said something that made zero sense.  
  
_The Maze is a code, Tom. The Maze is a code._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst part already! Feel the apocalypse coming >:)


	23. The Grievers, remember; we're getting an endgame (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas thought that his life in the Glade was already whacked with all he's going through-but the Maze hadn't shown all its cards yet. Now, even further disaster strikes; the girl has woken up demanding to see him, and she makes him warm in a way that he can only compare to Newt's heat. What's happening to him? Is it possible that he's falling for two people? Is he really falling, or is it mere trust and tender? And that's not everything... The creators, careless about his heart, are breaking hell loose; after the gray sky and the general chaos, their new surprise comes. The Doors are not closing for the night. How can a single boy cope with all of this?

Thomas didn't want to see her. He didn't want to see anybody.

As soon as New set off to go and talk to the girl, Thomas slipped away, taking advantage of the general excitement, and headed for his place in the Deadheads forest. Leaning against the ivy, he threw his blanket, which he had forgotten that morning, on. It seemed like a way to leave Teresa out of his mind. After a few minutes, he managed to calm down. His heart stopped trying to break free from his chest.

"Forgetting about you was the worst part."

At first, he thought that it was another message in his head; but no. He had heard it with his ears, not with his brain. Feeling a shiver tickle his spine, he slowly lowered the blanket.

Teresa leaned against the massive stone wall to his right, now awake and alert. With her long-sleeved white shirt, the blue jeans and brown shoes, her fair-skinned face framed by long black hair, blue eyes shining, she looked even more stunning than when he saw her in the comma. "Tom, do you really not remember me?"

"You mean... You remember _me_?" he asked, ashamed at the squeak that escaped on the last word.

"Yes. No. Maybe. I can't explain it." She shook her head. "I remember _remembering_. Feelings, emotions...., like I have all these shelves in my head, labeled for memories and faces, but they're empty. I know I know you from before we came to the Maze. It's mostly empty, like I said. But I remember that you're my friend."

Thomas pulled the blanket completely off, in a daze, and leaned forward to shake her hand. Somehow, Teresa gave him a warm feeling. "I like how you call me Tom." _Great, shank. You couldn't have said anything dumber._

Teresa rolled her eyes. "That's your _name,_ isn't it?"

"Yeah, but most people call me Thomas. Well, except Newt—he calls me Tommy." When he grinned at that, unable to avoid his muscles from pulling his lips back, he felt Teresa's intense eyes on him. "Tom makes me feel like... I'm at home. Even though I don't know what home _is,_ " he added. 

Teresa smiled to him, the way a mother smiles when she sees her child getting a prize or playing with his friends. " _Who_ home is, for you." Thomas almost had to look away, as if he didn't have the right to look at her. Teresa's words touched him. Maybe... maybe she knew about the visions. Maybe she knew what happened before the Maze. Maybe she could help them. Newt and him. "Yeah, we're messed up. And I'm scared."

"So am I, trust me," Thomas assured. Such an understatement of the day. "What do you mean?"

The girl's smile was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. It was as if she didn't belong to such a dull place as the Maze. "I don't really remember, Tommy. I'm sorry. But I have a feeling that, for you, home and happiness are a person. Someone. And I also feel that you went here to find them. Answers. Something. You're here to find something important, Tommy."

Thomas couldn't help the warm flutter in his stomach. According to the visions... Was Newt his home? Maybe he came to save him. Maybe he came to fulfill his promise. Maybe they were destined to find a way to escape the Maze.

"And..." Now that the Questions and Answers was open, he wanted to take as much advantage as possible. "How... did you talk to me inside my mind?"

Teresa shook her head. _No idea—I can just do it,_ she thought to him. It's like riding a bike here—if they had one. I bet you could do it without thinking. But do you remember learning to ride one? It's kind of like that. You didn't tell anyone, did you? They'd think we're crazy."

"Well... When it first happened, I did. But I think Newt just thinks I was stressed out or something." Thomas felt like he'd go nuts if he didn't move. He stood up and started pacing in front of her. "We need to figure things out. That weird note you had about being the last person to ever come here, your coma, the fact that you can talk to me telepathically. Any ideas?"

Teresa watched him as he walked back and forth. "Save your breath and quit asking. All I have are faint impressions—that you and I were important. That we're smart. That we came here for a reason. I know I triggered the Ending, whatever that means." She groaned, her face reddening. "My memories are as useless as yours."

Thomas sighed, sitting down. His head hurt. There were just too many things on his mind to focus on one—yet they all wanted to have his attention. It was like having a dozen of children asking you to do something, all with a diferent request, all at the same time. It was exhausting. "You said something in my head right before you found me here," he said, trying to solve mysteries one by one. "You said 'The Maze is a code'. What did you mean?"

She shook her head. "When I first woke up, it was like I'd entered an insane asylum—these strange guys hovering over my bed, the world tipping around me, memories swirling. I tried to reach out and grasp a few, and that was one of them. I can't remember why I said it. I'm sorry, Tom."

"Was there anything else?"

Teresa pulled up the sleeve of her left arm, exposing her biceps. Small letters were written across it in black ink. 

**WICKED is good**

Thomas' heart beat faster. "I've seen that word— _wicked._ On the little creatures that live here, the beetle blades. They're like lizard machines that the Creators use to spy on us. When did you write it?"

"When I woke up," she said, wettening her thumb with the tongue and starting rubbing the words off. "They had a pen and a notebook next to the bed. I grabbed the pen and wrote it down in the commotion."

Thomas was baffled by the girl—the sensation of familiarity, the connection from the beggining, the telepathy and now this. "Everything about you is weird. You know that, right?"

She smiled. "I'd say you're not so normal yourself. Like living in the woods, do ya?"

That _ya_ reminded him of a certain one. His heart did a mortal flip backwards, and he felt his face get incandescent. He tried to conceal it by turning and kneeling down to fold the blanket, but Teresa's laughter, like sleigh bells ringing, made it clear that she had seen him. _God. Why am I so stupid about—and around—Newt?_ He did know the answer, though he didn't want to admit it. It would only mean more problems for them both, and they already had a good amount on their plates.

"I also remember some vague things about you," she said. Thomas could feel the smile in her voice. "I remember you angered the Creators when they discovered you doing _something_. They lost something important. You had something to do with it. They went nuts. I also remember..." Teresa suddenly shut.

Thomas blinked, confused by the sudden stop. Even though his face was still a pitiful spectacle, he turned to look at her. "You remember _what_?"

Coughing, Teresa looked away. "You told me not to tell you," she whispered. "I feel like I know something important about you and this Glade, but I can't tell you. I don't remember it, and you told me not to. I... I'm sorry, Tom. Really."

Before Thomas could answer, Newt was running out of the woods. "How in the..." he said. He stopped on his tracks in front of them, frowning and tilting his head. Alby and a few others were right behind him. Some tripped at the sudden stop. "How'd you get here? Med-jack said you were there one second and buggin' gone the next. Hello, Thomas. What the shuck are you doin' here with the girl?"

Teresa stood up, confident. "Guess he forgot to tell the little part about me kicking him in the groin and climbing out the window."

Thomas almost laughed as Newt turned to an older boy, whose face had turned bright red. "Congrats, Jeff," Newt said. "You're officially the first guy here to get your butt beat by a _girl_."

Arching an eyebrow, Teresa gave Thomas a sideways look before crossing her arms and staring at Newt. "Sorry, Tom, but if your friend keeps talking like that, then he's next." Thomas opened his eyes wide, looking at her in indignation. Why him? Why sorry? Why was everyone staring? Why why?

Newt turned back to face them, but his face didn't show fear at all. He just looked at them, silent. Thomas stared back, gripping the blanket as he stood up, wondering what was going through his head.

Alby finally stepped up. "I'm sick of this." He pointed at Thomas' chest, almost tapping it. "I wanna know who you are, who this shank girl is, and how you guys know each other."

Thomas felt a faint dismay. "Alby, I swear—"

"She came straight to you after waking up, shuck-face!"

"Okay, okay, let's all calm bloody down," Newt intervened, stepping between them, raising his hands and shooting a dirty look to Alby. "We're all a bit altered, here."

Anger surged inside Thomas—and worry that Alby could end up acting like Ben had. "So what?" he spitted, pushing Newt's arm down. "I know her, she knows me—or at least, we used to. That doesn't mean anything! I can't _remember_ anything. Neither can she."

Newt gave him a sideways glance and stepped to the right, away from him. His expression was unreadable, and that made Thomas nervous. Something had happened, he could feel it. Something big. Something bad.

Alby looked at Teresa. "What did you do?" Teresa didn't reply. "What did you do!" Alby screamed at her silence. "First the sky, now this."

"I triggered something," she replied, calm. "Not on purpose, I swear. The Ending. I don't know what that means."

Thomas bit the tip of his tongue, feeling uneasy. What was _this_? "What's wrong, Newt?" he asked, not wanting to talk to Alby directly. "What happened?"

Newt's face softened at the questions but, before he could say anything, Alby grabbed Thomas by the shirt. "What happened? I'll tell ya what happened, shank. Too busy makin' lovey eyes to bother lookin' around? To bother noticing what freaking _time_ it is!"

Thomas looked at his watch, realizing with horror what he'd missed. He raised his glance, terrified, finding Newt's eyes on him, pregnant with concern. He knew what Alby was about to say. 

"The _walls,_ you shuck. The _Doors._ They didn't close tonight."

 

The next hour was a blur. Alby, completely hysterical, locked Teresa in the Slammer, blaming her for the doors not closing. Even though Newt put two guardians with her and made them swear no one would touch Teresa, Thomas still felt like puking. How could they blame a girl because the massive stones didn't move?

Even though there was still no sun, and the light hadn't changed from the moment they woke up, it still felt like darkness had spread over the Glade. Alby and Newt gathered the Keepers,  putting them in charge of making assignments and getting their groups inside the Homestead within the hour, but Thomas had a feeling that he couldn't shake off. He felt like they were about to face a horror they weren't prepared for.

The Builders, without Gally—who was still missing—, put up barricades at each Door, even though there wasn't enough time and materials weren't good. Still, he knew what Alby and Newt were doing from his talks with the latter; they wanted people busy, wanted to delay the panick attacks. He helped the Builders gathering every single item he could find and helping them fill the gaps, though he knew that it wouldn't keep the Grievers out. It looked ugly and pathetic. Just the way he felt.

He finally gave up the Builders and helped Minho, who was carrying up boxes of knives and barbwire-wrapped clubs. So he wasn't the only one fearing the Grievers. He didn't know whether he should feel relieved or even more scared. After carrying two or three, though, Minho said he had a special assignment from Newt, and sent him packing, refusing to answer any of his questions.

This hurt Thomas' feelings, but he left anyway, really wanting to talk to Newt about something else. He finally found him on his way to the Blood House. "Newt!" he called out, running to catch up. "You have to listen to me."

Newt stopped so suddenly Thomas almost ran into him. He turned to give Thomas such an annoyed look that he thought twice about saying anything. "Make it quick," Newt barked. 

Thomas frowned, concerned, not sure how to say what he was thinking. "You've gotta set the girl free. Teresa." Even though he recognised that she didn't seem like the best news to the Gladers, he knew that she could only help, that her mind might still hide something valuable.

"Ah, glad to know you guys are buddies  now." Newt started walking off. Thomas stared at him, confused, with his mouth hanging open. Was that...? "Don't waste my time, Tommy." 

_Was that jealousy?_

Thomas grabbed his arm. "Listen to me!" he pleaded him, trying to focus on the girl and saving the Glade instead of the possible—hopefully—jealousy in the boy's tone. "There's something about her—I think she and I were sent here to help end this whole thing."

"Yeah—end it by lettin' the bloody Grievers waltz in here and kill us? I've heard some sucky plans in my day, Greenie, but that's got 'em all beat."

"God, Newt. I don't think that's what it means," Thomas said with a groan. "I think... I think we're here as part of some weird experiment, or test, or something. But it's supposed to end somehow. We can't live here forever—whoever sent us here _wants_ it to end. One way or another," he explained. It felt like a heavy load was taken off his chest.

Newt rubbed his eyes. "And that's supposed to convince me that everything's jolly—that I should let the girl go? Because she came and everything is suddenly do-or-die? Things don't work like that, Tommy." 

Thomas felt like they weren't only talking about the Maze walls now. There was a double meaning to that conversation.

"No, you're missing the _point,_ " he said. "She's just a pawn. Just because she was the trigger for the Ending doesn't make her bad."

Rubbing the back of his neck now, Newt looked towards the Slammer. "You know what, I don't buggin' care right now. She can handle one night in there—if anything, she'll be safer than us."

His tone had changed now; Thomas nodded, sensing a compromise. "Okay, we get through tonight, somehow. Tomorrow, when we have a whole day of safety, we figure out what to do with her. What we're supposed to do."

Newt snorted. "Tommy, what's gonna make tomorrow any different? It's been two bloody years, ya know."

"The difference is that all these changes are a catalyst for the endgame, Newt. Because now we _have_ to solve the Maze. We're forced to. We can't live that way before, day to day, thinking that what matters the most is getting back before the Doors close." As he spoke, he grabbed Newt's hand, both nervous and hopeful about it. 

He gulped when Newt didn't say anything and instead stared down to their hands. The older boy thought a minute as he stood there, apparently disconnected from reality. "Dig deeper. Stay out there while the walls move," he finally said.

"Exactly," Thomas answered. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. Maybe we could barricade or blow up the Griever Hole. But we need to buy time to analyze the Maze."

Newt nodded. "Alby's the one who won't let the girl out," he said, tilting his chin towards the Homestead. "That guy's not too high on you two shanks. But right now we just gotta slim ourselves and get to the wake-up."

"We can fight them off."

Newt squeezed his hand before letting go. "Done it before, haven't you, Hercules?" Without smiling or even waiting for a response, he walked away, yelling at people to finish up and get inside the Homestead. 

Thomas stared at him for a while, besotted. Giving orders and directing the Glade, he seemed powerful, confident and ruthless, yet he was also the fragile boy who had cried in front of him and almost given up. It seemed unbelievable that such opposite personalities could coexist in one person, yet there was Newt, dealing with that double nature. He already thought that the boy was strong, but now that he thought about him that way, that sensation rocketed.

Finally, he snapped out of it and decided to talk to Teresa before it was late. Sprinting for the Slammer, he watched as Gladers started getting inside the Homestead. He felt a cold shiver down his spine; they were all getting ready for the fatale night that was to fall upon them.

"Teresa?" he asked through the barred window of the cell when he got there, panting. Her face popped up on the other side, startling him. "Ah! You can be downright spooky, ya know?"

"Sweet," she said. "Thanks."

"Welcome," he murmured, ignoring the sarcasm. "Listen, I've been thinking." He paused to order his thoughts. "There's gotta be a way out of this place—we just have to push it, stay out in the Maze longer. And what you wrote on your arm, and what you said about a code, it all has to mean something, right?"

"Yeah, I've been thinking the same thing," she nodded. In the dark, her blue eyes shone like a cat's. "But first—can't you get me out of here?"

"Well, Newt said maybe tomorrow." Thomas was just glad he'd gotten that much of a concession. Even though that put Newt in a dangerous position regarding to Alby, it was a huge help they needed if they wanted to get out of the Maze. "You'll have to make it through the night. It might actually be the safest place in the Glade."

"Thanks for asking him. Should be fun sleeping on this cold floor." She pointed behind her with a thumb. "Though I guess a Griever can't squeeze through this window, so I'll be happy, right?"

When she mentioned the Grievers, Thomas frowned, surprised. He didn't remember talking about them to her yet. "Teresa, are... you sure you've forgotten everything?"

She thought a second. "I... It's weird—I guess I remember some stuff. Unless I heard people talking when I was in the coma."

"Well, I guess it doesn't matter right now. I just wanted to see you before I went inside for the night," he said. But he didn't want to leave; he almost wished he could get thrown in the Slammer with her, so that they could try to figure out what to do with Teresa's memories and Thomas' knowledge of the Glade. He grinned inside—he could perfectly imagine Newt's response to _that_ request.

"Tom?" she said. "I don't know if I can do this—stay in this jail all night."

His heart saddened at that—he wanted to help her escape. But that was ridiculous, and it would only get her more suffering and mistrust. "At least it won't get completely dark. Looks like this twilight junk lasts twenty-four hours a day. I'll make sure they free you first thing tomorrow, okay? And if you get lonely, you can talk to me with your... trick all you want."

 _Don't worry,_ Teresa said in his mind, _you'll get it soon. Now go—I don't want your murder on my conscience._

Thomas smiled at that. "See you tomorrow."

He slipped away, heading around the corner towards the front of the Homestead just as the last couple of Gladers entered, Newt shooing them in. Thomas stepped inside as well, followed by Newt, who closed the door behind him.

Just before he slammed it shut, Thomas heard an eerie moan, coming from somewhere deep in the Maze. The Grievers.

The night had begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Closer and closer we get to the apotheosic ending! I seriously can't wait to show you guys, though... I still have to write it XD But I'm just as impatient as you are to get there, so expect regular updates!
> 
> Also, keep an eye on my page, because I'll be publishing the brand new chapters of the prequel to Night Visions soon! *General fangirling and authorgirling* Look for "Before You Go" to get to know what happened between Thomas and Newt before the Maze, and to find out the truth behind the visions. You'll hopefully love it as well!
> 
> Finally (this is getting longer than Sunday masses), I would like to thank you for all the support I'm getting here. I honestly didn't know I would have you backing me up this much, and I can't express how important it is for me. I haven't been at my best lately, and you lift my spirits whenever I see that you have either voted, commented or just read NV. So thanks from the bottom of my heart; and shall you ever meet me, ask me for the Lacasitos I owe you. Love! xxx


	24. The beginning of the end (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the sun disappeared and the doors remained open at night, it's official: the Gladers can't continue living the way they did, and they must, more than ever before, find a way out. Though the previously mentioned issues aren't the only ones they'll have to face-old foes and new dangers can't stop popping up. Is survival even possible?

Even though the whole Glade was inside the Homestead now and such a change must've been a complete chaos, there was a disturbing silence hanging over them. When everyone was settled, Thomas found himself upstairs with Newt, Alby and Minho, and they were finally able to set down their discussion. 

Alby opposed to everything Thomas said, unwilling to try to run at night. Thomas found himself rolling his eyes to Minho several times, tired of such a negative attitude. He felt sorry for the leader, considering his weary look of depression and what the Changing had done to him, but he also felt fed up of getting excuses to stick to the Glade. It wasn't a safe place anymore, so they must try to get out instead of trying to stay by all means.

Newt and Minho, on the other hand, were on Thomas' side. Minho even wanted to stay out for whole days. "With open Doors and no sunset, there's no point in coming back," he explained.

"No way," Alby said. "We have the Homestead to hide in—and if that ain't workin', the Map Room and the Slammer. We can't freaking ask people to go out there and die, Minho! Who'd volunteer for that?"

"Me," the Keeper said. "And Thomas."

Feeling three pairs of eyes on him, Thomas simply nodded. He was scared to death, yet exploring the Maze was something he'd wanted to do from the first time he'd heard of it.

"I will if I have to," Newt said, surprising Thomas. Even though they hadn't ever talked about it since he helped the older boy out of the forest, his limp was a constant reminder that something horrible had happened in the Maze to him. He hadn't told Thomas yet, but he could only guess that it had to do with his inner insecurity and depressive mood. "And I'm sure all the Runners'll do it."

"With your bum leg?" Alby asked, a bitter laughing escaping his lips.

Newt's nostrils widened, and he then looked to the ground. "Well, I don't feel good askin' Gladers to do something if I won't bloody do it myself. Alby, you gotta start talkin' reason. What's wrong with you? Are you tellin' me we have a choice any other than tryin' to solve this? Shoud we just sit around and wait to be snuffed by the Grievers, is it?"

Alby finally took a deep breath, then looked at each of them carefully. "You guys know I'm screwed up. Seriously, I'm... Sorry. I shouldn't be the leader anymore. I ain't saying that we should switch or any of that klunk. I just don't trust myself. I need you guys to make the decisions."

Thomas could see that Minho and Newt were just as startled as he was. "Uh... okay," Newt said slowly. "We'll make it work. I promise. You'll see."

Alby ended up in charge of the Maps, swearing that he'd work every Glader to the bone studying them. Even though all of them could hear the Grievers moaning out, the leader of the Glade insisted on getting to the Map Room to study what could be their only chance of escaping. Thomas couldn't believe the sudden burst of bravery, though he felt relieved. He was just too sick of the contention. 

They were going to work their way out of that Maze.

 

No one really talked. It was strange to know that the sky should be darkening, stars rising and moon peeking, for the night when they only had the pale, dull gray light. The Gladers settled themselves with pillows and blankets, and even though everyone was trying to sleep, it seemed impossible, with the Grievers purring and moaning in the distance, closer and closer each time they whined. Almost everyone had an emergency flashlight by their side; Newt had ordered all lights extinguished. Thomas understood him; there was no need to attract more attention. They had barricaded the windows, put furniture in front of doors, handed knives out...

But Thomas didn't feel safe.

Chuck had ended up in a different room, and he could picture the boy crying, squeezing his blankets to his chest like a teddy bear. The image disturbed Thomas so deeply that he tried to replace it, but he couldn't. Chuck kept on popping up whenever he closed his eyes to blink.

What exasperated him the most was the waiting. He almost wished the beasts would just attack, because the anticipation of what _might_ happen was a suffocating blanket of misery. When he fell asleep, it only lasted for a few minutes before something woke up—a new moan, someone coughing or the fear itself. When he rolled for the millionth time that night, he could only guess it was about two in the morning. He stared to the people spread across the floor, some of which were just as awake as he was.

Then everything changed.

A clicking sound came from outside, followed by the familiar rolling sticky noise of the Grievers on the stony ground. Thomas jolted to his feet, as did most of the others.

Newt was up before anyone, though, waving his arms, shushing the room with a finger on his lips. He tiptoed to the barricaded window, which was covered by wooden boards that allowed peeking through their large cracks, and carefully took a look. Thomas, scared by the possibility that a Griever might see him or attack right in that moment, crawled to join him.

He crouched below Newt against the lowest of the wooden boards, too scared to notice their proximity. All he saw was the open Glade; at least straight ahead, as it was the only direction in which he could look, there wasn't a single of those hideous monsters. After a minute or so of watching, he finally turned to sit with his back against the wall. Newt joined him, with his gaze lost as he nervously wringed his hands. Every ten to twenty seconds, Griever sounds renewed the fear inside of him.

He wasn't nearly ready to face them again, he understood. His mouth dried when he remembered their nasty aspect. How could you ever be ready for doing so? He had to remember himself to breathe. The rest of the room was dead silent; no one made a sound.

One of the Grievers seemed to be approaching the Homestead. Thomas could picture him climbing up towards their room, like a snake sliding between rocks, like a spider going up her web to capture a delicious fly. The sounds grew louder, louder, _closer_ , and the rest of the boys huddled against the far wall, staring at the window. Thomas finally followed suit, feeling like there was a heavy rock in his stomach dragging him down to the floor, Newt right besides him; everyone shuffled in there, uncertain about their immediate future. Meanwhile, the spikes, razors and blades of the Griever kept on nailing the wall, getting closer and closer, scratching the wall, defying gravity.

Right when Thomas thought he would lose it, the Glade suddenly fell silent. Thomas could almost hear his own heart beating.

Lights danced out there, creating odd shadows when they passed through the wooden boards. Thomas guessed that people was too scared, trying to chase fear away with light. He imagined the Grievers getting attracted to that light, their weapons out, ready to kill. Maybe the beetle blades were helping them as well. Maybe he was wrong, and they weren't supposed to get out—maybe they were supposed to die. He felt his throat closing, all heat draining from his body. His eyes burnt as if he had spilled tabasco sauce on them.

He thought of Teresa, down in the Slammer. He wished she'd say something to him, just to confirm that she was alive, when the door suddenly banged open. Everyone had been holding their breath and, as if that were a signal, the room broke loose into shouts and gasps. They all had been expecting something to attack from the window, not from behind them.

Thomas turned to see who'd opened the door, expecting a shaky Chuck or an Alby that had thought about his suicidal proposal twice. But when he saw who actually stood there, his stomach contracted and his brain squeezed, in shock. Anxiety began making him choke.

It was Gally.

 

"THEY'LL KILL YOU!" he screamed, small saliva shotguns flying everywhere. "THE GRIEVERS WILL KILL YOU ALL—ONE EACH NIGHT TILL IT'S OVER!"

Thomas watched, speechless, as the boy walked forward, pathetically dragging his right leg. No one in the room moved, too stunned to do anything. Even Newt was petrified by his sudden appeareance. With his torn, filthy clothes and his lunatic look, Gally was like a ghost. Thomas couldn't decide if he was more afraid of the Grievers out there or of their sudden visitor.

Gally stopped, just a few feet away from Thomas and Newt; he pointed at the former with a bloody finger. "You," he hissed. "It's all your fault! You two's fault!" Without warning, he closed his hand into a fist and slammed it into Thomas' ear. With a cry, Thomas collapsed to the ground, more suprised than hurt. That got him out of his shock state; as soon as he hit the floor, he got back on his feet again.

Newt, who had apparently snapped out of his daze as well, pushed Gally away. Thomas had never seen him so angry; his eyes gleamed with rage, and he was pressing his fists so hard that his knuckles had gone white. The room, full of sleeping bags and two or three beds, had suddenly turned into a boxing ring. 

Gally crashed into the desk by the window. A lamp fell to the floor and broke into pieces on the ground. He straightened right away, with a mad gaze. "It can't be solved," he said with a crooked, spooky voice. "The shuck Maze'll kill you all shanks. ...The Grievers'll kill you... one every night till it's over. ...I ...It's better this way..." His eyes fell to the floor. "They'll only kill one of you each night... their stupid Variables..."

Thomas, who had been listening in awe, felt like something clicked in his brain at that last word. He tried to shut his fear so that he could memorize Gally's words. They might help him figure the Maze out.

Newt took a step forward, breathing heavily. It wasn't due to the sudden outburst; Thomas knew that he was trying to control his rage. "Gally, shut your bloody hole—there's a Griever right out in the window," he hissed. "Just sit on your butt and be quiet—maybe it'll go away."

Gally narrowed his eyes. "You don't get it, Newt. You're too stupid—you've always been too stupid. There's no way out—there's no way to win! They're gonna kill you, all of you—one by _one_!"

Thomas had started stomping towards the former Keeper of the Builders after the insult, but Gally threw himself towards the window, screaming the last word, and started trying to rip the wooden boards of, like a wild animal trying to escape a cage. Before anyone could react, he had already taken one off; he threw it to the ground and moved on to the next one.

"No!" Newt yelled, running towards him. Thomas followed to help—and maybe to get revenge punching the slinthead in that face of his. 

Gally ripped off the second board just as Newt reached him. He swung it backwards with both hands and crashed it into Newt's face, sending him sprawling across one of the beds as a small trail of blood sprinkled the sheets. 

That was the last straw.

With an unknown strength, Thomas tensed his body and gave Gally a punch that sent him flying to the wall to their left. Thomas felt something crack behind his knucles, and hoped it hurt. Hoped it hurt as hell. "What the shuck are you _doing?_ " he growled, approaching him slowly, ready to attack again.

The boy spat to his right a bloody substance along with something yellowish. He panted like a wounded dog. "You shut your shuck-face, _Thomas._ You shut up! I know who you are, but I don't care anymore. I know both of you. I don't bloody care! I can only do what's right."

Thomas swung his leg backwards to get impulse enough for a good kick, completely out of his mind, but Gally, with a surpising speed, got back on his feet and threw himself towards the window again, trying to rip off the third wooden pannel. The moment he managed to do so and threw it to the floor, the glass exploded inwards, and a rain of shattered crystal fell upon all the Gladers in the room. 

Thomas covered his face with his arms, turning his head to avoid any of the tiny transparent daggers getting into his eyes. He fell to the floor, trying to scoot as far as possible. When he reached the bed, he gathered some courage and looked ahead, lowering his arms. He was as ready as he could be to face his world coming to an end.

A Griever's bulbous body had sneaked halfway through the destroyed window, metallic arms with all kind of horrors and weapons snapping and clawing in all directions. Thomas was so terrified, he barely registered that everyone else in the room had fled to the hallway—all except Newt, who he saw laying in the bed, knocked unconscious.

Frozen, Thomas watched as one of the monster's arms reached for Newt's body. That was all it took to free him from the paralyzing fear. He searched for a weapon on the floor, finding anything but useless knives; he jumped to his feet and put himself between the Griever and Newt, extending his arms. "You won't get him," he muttered with all his hate, narrowing his eyes. 

Then Gally was speaking again—the Griever pulled back, as if he were to observe and listen. Its body, though, continued tossing and turning, trying to get inside.

"No one ever understood!" he screamed over the clicks and crunches of the horrible beast. "No one ever understood what I saw, what the Changing did to me! Don't go back to the real world, Thomas! You _don't... want..._ to remember!"

As if he had forgotten about the punch and their previous fight, Gally gave Thomas a long, haunted look; then he turned and dove onto the Griever's body. Thomas yelled as he saw the monster retract and grab Gally's arms and legs, immediately pushing itself out of the frame of the window and descending towards the ground.

Thomas ran to the hole, and looked down just in time to see the Griever land and start scooting across the glade, Gally's body appearing and disappearing as he rolled towards the Maze. The monster's lights shone brightly when it disappeared through the West Door, followed close by several other beasts, whirring and clicking. It was like a spooky celebration of their capture.

He closed his eyes to try to hold back his increasing urge to throw up. _Newt._ Alright. His priorities switched as the boy became the top one.

Thomas began getting away from the window, but something outside caught his eye. He quickly leaned out to get a better loock. A lone silhouette was sprinting across the Glade towards the West Door, chasing after the monsters who had taken Gally.

Despite the poor light, Thomas realised who it was immediately. He yelled at him to stop, but it was too late. 

Minho, running full speed, disappeared into the Maze.

 

A new urge replaced the poking one—Thomas _had_ to catch up with Minho and talk some sense into him. He had to bring him back to the Glade. As fast as lightning, he grabbed a pillowcase and used it to wipe Newt's blood away from his face, dragging him across the bed to sit him up. After he did an almost acceptable job, he left the piece of fabric on the boy's lifeless hand and prepared himself to run faster than he had ever run before.

Before leaving, and feeling his knees weaken before what he was about to do, he leaned in and planted a kiss on Newt's forehead, remembering the absolute terror he had felt when the Griever tried to get him. He knew that he was about to disappear again, just like he did when he ran into the Maze for the first time, when Minho and Alby couldn't get in; and he hated himself for making him undergo such a painful experience again, but they couldn't afford losing Minho. The Runner was the one who knew the Maps the best, and he was their only hope if they wanted to decipher them. "I'm going after Minho. I'll be right back," he murmured. He hoped Newt could hear him. Maybe the promise would ease him.

He turned to leave, but he felt a weak grip on his wrist. "Time to be a bloody hero again?" Newt faintly asked. Thomas didn't turn. He couldn't be able to leave if he did. He instead nodded, his mouth all dry.

"I'll be right back," he repeated, hoping that saying it over and over again would make it become true. "I promise."

He ran into the hallway, ignoring the chaos—Gladers ran about, everyone talking at once, some crying in a corner. He leaped down the stairs, three at a time, and pushed his way through a crowd in the foyer, tore out of the Homestead and towards the West Door, sprinting. He pulled up right in front of the opening, his instincts forcing him to think it twice. 

Newt called him from behind, delaying the decision. 

"Minho followed it out there!" Thomas exclaimed, desperated, turning. He saw Newt hobbling quickly towards him, the pillowcase pressed against his temple, and that broke his heart. He felt like crying for some reason. The boy shouldn't be there, but resting on a bed. He _needed_ Newt to understand and let him go.

"Thomas, you're a regular toughie," Newt shouted, "but right now, we have worse problems."

"What?" Thomas had no time for this.

"Somebody—" Newt began.

"There he is!" Thomas shouted, interrupting him. Minho had just turned a corner up ahead and was running towards them. Thomas cupped his hands around his mouth. "What were you doing, idiot!"

Minho didn't answer until he made it through the door, then bent over, hands over his knees, and tried to catch his breath before answering. "I just... wanted to... make sure." He rose a hand to wipe off the sweat from his forehead.

"Make sure what?" Newt asked. By his tone, Thomas could say that he was almost as angry as he himself was. "Lotta good you'd be, taken with Gally."

"Slim it, boys!" Minho shouted, putting his hands on his hips, still breathing heavily. "I just wanted to see if they went down the Griever Hole. And guess what? Bingo."

"What a night," Newt whispered.

Thomas then realised that he had cut him when he was trying to say something important, and looked at him, ashamed. "What were you about to tell me?" he asked, rubbing his left wrist. "You said we had worse—"

"Yeah." Newt pursed his lips as he pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "You can still see the buggin' smoke."

Thomas looked in that direction, unsure about whether something that made him even more anxious and worried could've happened. It turned out that _yes,_ it could have, and _had_ , happened.

The heavy metal door of the Map Room was slightly open, and a thick trail of black smoke escaped from the inside to slowly fade against the gray sky. No. Their clues. A work worth two years. _No._ He felt tears forming in his eyes, and he blinked to try to keep them from falling.

Newt, who was looking at him, put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Somebody burned the Map trunks," he said. "Every last one of them."


	25. A bizarre twist (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right when everyone is losing their hopes, Thomas thinks of something that may help the Gladers scape the horrible destiny that awaits them in the Maze. But will it work?

For some reason, after hearing the news, something clicked in Thomas' mind, and he decided that the Maps weren't that important, anyway. It was as if his mind wouldn't accept any more tragedies, to avoid collapsing. While Minho and Newt went to investigate the sabotage, Thomas went to another place. He could only think of doing one thing.

"Teresa?" he asked. 

Her face appeared. She rubbed her eyes. "Was anybody killed?" she asked groggily. _What kind of person asks that right after waking up? Agh. Nevermind._

"Were you _sleeping_?" Thomas was relieved to see that she was okay. He felt his body relax, something that it hadn't done ever since they woke to this eternal gray dullness.

"I was," she admitted nonchalantly, "until I heard something that shattered the Homestead into pieces. What happened?"

Thomas shook his head in disbelief. "I can't believe you slept with all those Grievers out here."

"You try coming out of a coma sometime. See how you do." _Now answer my question,_ she thought for him.

Thomas blinked, taken off-guard for a second by the voice. "Cut that junk out. You don't know Gally, but he's a psycho kid who ran away. He showed up, beat the hell out of Newt, jumped on a Griever, and they all took off into the Maze. It was really weird." If it wasn't for the dry blood on his hands, he himself would've found it hard to believe.

"Which is saying a lot."

They remained silent for a while, until Thomas shook his head. He was trying to understand the whole situation, yet he couldn't make anything out. "I just don't get it. Why would the Grievers leave after getting Gally? He said something about them killing us one a night until we were all dead—he said it at least twice."

Teresa put her hands through the bars. "Just one a night? Why?"

"I don't know. He also said it had to do with... trials. Or variables. Something like that." Thomas had a strange urge to reach out and squeeze one of her hands. He stopped himself, though. What he couldn't avoid was worrying. 

He felt exactly the same as when he was with Newt. Did this mean that he also liked Teresa? Now that he had finally made up his mind and heart about his feelings, the girl came to turn his world upside down. What if he had fallen for Teresa? What would that mean? How would he handle it? And Newt? What would he tell him? They had shared too much to end up like this. What if he hated him? What if he stopped even looking at him? Didn't this worry mean that he was falling for Newt? But, again, the connection with Teresa, and the urge to take her hand...

"...Tom? Tom!"

He snapped out of his trance when she cried out his name. "Sorry, what?"

"I said that I've been thinking about what you told me I said, about the Maze being a code. The walls move every day, right? And Minho said there was a pattern, also."

"Yeah." Thomas could tell that she was really onto something. He felt his mind preparing, as if some memory was about to break loose.

"Well, I can't remember why I said that to you about the code. But when I was getting out of the comma, and my memories were swirling through my head like crazy—like someone was sucking them out—, I felt like I needed to say that about the code. So it must be really important."

Thomas almost didn't hear her—he was thinking harder than he had in a while. "They always compare each section's Map to the one from the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that, day by day, each Runner just analysing their own Section. What if they're supposed to compare the Maps to _other_ sections..." He fell silent, feeling like he was about to discover something really big.

Teresa seemed to ignore him, theorizing herself. "The first thing I think about when I hear _code_ is letters. Letters in the alphabet. Maybe... Maybe the Maze," she slowly said, "is supposed..., is trying to _spell_ something."

Everything came together so quickly in Thomas mind that he heard an audible click, as if the pieces all snapped into place at once.

"You're right—you're right!" he realised, jumping to his feet in excitement. "But the Runners have been looking at it wrong this whole time. They've been analysing it the wrong way!" He grabbed the two bars she didn't hold on to, moving close enough to smell them—a pleasant scent of flowers and sweat. "Minho said the patterns repeat themselves, only they can't figure out why. But they've always studied them section by section, comparing each day to the next. What if each day is a separate piece of the code, and they're supposed to use all eight sections of one day together somehow? 

"Maybe each day reveals a word, or a letter—but they've always thought that the movements would reveal how to escape, not spell something. They've studied it as a map, not like a picture. We gotta—"

Then he remembered what he'd just been told by Newt.

"Oh. No."

Worry bursted in Teresa's eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Oh no oh no oh no oh no..." Thomas let go off the bars and fell backwards, his gaze lost as reality took over again. The smoke had lessened around them, but he could still see it wafting out the door, covering the entire area. "I didn't think it mattered..."

" _What!_ " she demanded.

"Someone _burned_ all the Maps. If there was a code, it's gone."

 

The first thing he saw were some Gladers outside the large door. But as he approached them, he realised they were surrounding something on the ground. He spotted Newt, and his heart skipped a beat before he realised that they weren't staring at him, but at the body besides him.

Minho was the first one to see him. "Where'd you go?"

"To talk to Teresa—what happened?" More bad news, for sure. He was even getting used to it. Now that he had realised the importance of the maps, that they had been _this_ close to finding a useful clue, his body hurt at the thought that they had lost them.

Minho creased his forehead in anger. "Our Map Room was set on fire and you ran off to talk to your shuck girlfriend? What's wrong with you?"

"She's not—We don't have time for this. Listen, Minho, I need to tell you and Newt something. And we need to free Teresa—we could use her help for this. Plus, she's probably starving."

Minho grunted. "That stupid girl is the last thing I'm worried about," he snapped.

Thomas ignored the insult. "Just give us a few minutes—we have an idea. Maybe we can get it to work if enought Runners remember their maps."

This seemed to get Minho's attention—but there was a strange look, as if Thomas was missing something very obvious. "An idea? What?"

"Just come over to the Slammer with me. You and Newt."

 

"Come on," Thomas insisted, "let her out! What's she gonna do, run around and stab every Glader to death? Come on."

Minho sighed, defeated after several minutes of heated discussion on whether they should free Teresa or not. "Fine. Just let the stupid girl out."

"I'm not stupid!" Teresa shouted. "And I can hear every word you morons are saying!"

Newt's eyes widened before he arched an eyebrow. "Real sweet you picked up, Tommy. Real sweet."

Thomas was unable to meet his eyes. He looked away, chewing his lip as he felt the internal debate Teresa vs. Newt begin again. "Just hurry. We have a lot to do before the Grievers come back tonight."

Newt snorted as he pulled his keys out, clearly unhappy with letting Teresa out, but he still stepped up to the Slammer and unlocked it. "Come on," he dryly said, opening the door by hooking a finger around a bar and pulling. "We don't have all the bloody day."

Teresa walked out, shooting Newt a dirty look, which Minho earned after as well. She stopped next to Thomas; her arm brushed against his, and he felt warmth shoot across his skin. He felt mortally embarrassed, as if literally everyone could feel what he did and hear his thoughts.

"All right, talk," Minho said. "What's so important?"

Thomas looked at Teresa, wondering how to say it.

"What? You talk—they've obviously taken me for a serial killer."

"Yeah, you look so dangerous," Thomas muttered. "Okay, when she was first coming out of her comma, she had memories flashing through her mind. She, um" —he decided to leave out the fact that they could talk telepathically—"she told me later that she remembers that the Maze is a code. That maybe it's trying to send us a message. I'm not sure how—you're more familiar with the Maps than I am. But I have a theoury. That's why I was hoping you guys could remember some of them."

Minho looked at Newt, and he nodded. Thomas suspected that they were keeping information from him. 

"You guys act like you have a secret. Quit it already," he groaned.

Newt uttered something unheardable, sinking his hands in his pockets. Minho rubbed his eyes with both hands. "We hid the Maps, Thomas. We hid the freaking Maps in the weapons room, put dummies in their place. Because of Alby's warning. And because of the so-called _Ending_ your girlfriend triggered."

Thomas was so excited to hear this that he temporarily forgot about how bad things were, about his sentimental issues and about the whole thing. He remembered Minho's 'special assignment' from the day before. It all made sense. As if Newt had read his mind, he nodded when Thomas gave him a sideways look.

"They're all safe and sound," Minho said. "Every last one of those suckers. There's a secret room in the weapons room. So if you have anything, keep talking."

They could do it. They could crack the code and escape the Maze. "Take me to them."

 

"Okay," Thomas said, starting over. He walked around the small room, which contained no more than a wooden worktable, some boxes with the Maps and some others with supplies piled up to the ceiling. "You've always had one Runner assigned to each section, right? And he makes a Map every day, and then compares it to Maps from previous days _for that section_. What if, instead, you were supposed to compare the eight sections _to each other_ , every day? Each day being a separate clue or code? Did you ever do that?"

Minho rubbed his chin, nodding. "Yeah, kind of. We tried to see if they made sense when put together—of course we did. We've tried everything."

Thomas pursed his lips, thinking, as he pulled his legs up, embracing them. He could just barely see the lines of the Maze written on the second page through the first one. In that instant, he knew what they had to do. He looked up to the others.

"Wax paper."

"Huh?" Minho asked, caught off-guard. "What the..."

"Just trust me. We need wax paper and scissors. And every black marker and pencil you can find."

 

After ten minutes of hunting of haunting down pencils and markers, out of which most had been destroyed in the fire, and a heated discussion with Frypan before he gave up his wax paper, Thomas sat around the worktable in the weapons basement with Newt, Minho and Teresa. They hadn't found any scissors, so Thomas had grabbed the sharpest knife he could find.

"This better be good," Minho warned him.

Newt leaned in forward, putting his elbows on the table, and fixed an intense look on him, as if he were waiting for a magic trick. "Get on with it, Greenie."

"Okay." He handed the knife to Minho with a nervously shaking hand, then pointed to the wax paper. "Start cutting rectangles, about the size of the Maps. Newt and Teresa"— _oh, irony—_ "you can help me grab the first ten or so Maps from each section box."

"What is this, kiddie craft time?" Minho held up the knife and looked at it with disgust. "Why don't you just tell us what the klunk are we doing this for?"

"I'm done explaining," Thomas said, knowing they had to see what he was picturing in his mind instead of have him showing them. "It'll be easier. If I'm wrong, I'm wrong, and we can go back to running around the Maze like mice."

Minho sighed, clearly irritated. Newt didn't say a thing. Teresa had stayed quiet, too, but she spoke up inside of Thomas' head. _I think I know what you're doing. Brilliant._

When Minho had cut down at least twenty sheets, Thomas grabbed one and held it up to the light, saw how it shone. It was _exactly_ what he needed. He grabbed a marker. "All right, everybody trace the last ten or so days onto a piece of this stuff. When we're done, I think we might see something."

"What—" Minho began.

"Just keep bloody cutting," Newt ordered. He showed a crooked smile. "I think I know where he's going with this." 

He didn't sound angry or irritated, and Thomas was relieved that a )he wasn't and b) someone was finally getting it. They got to work, putting the wax paper on the Maps and copying them, one by one, trying to keep it clean and correct. They all worked feverishly, dying to see if it could lead them to solving the Maze's riddle.

Box by box, section by section, they continued. The piles besides each of them grew and grew as they worked.

"I've had enough," Newt finally announced, breaking the quiet. "My fingers are bloody burning like a mother. See if it's working."

Thomas put the marker down and flexed his fingers. A part of him distractedly compared Newt's harshness and straight-forward talking to Teresa's finer one. He still couldn't figure out why he was trying to compare them, or why Teresa made him feel good and protected, too, and it was getting on his nerves. He decided that he'd better set that apart for after his plan proved itself either wrong or right. "Okay, give me the last few days of each section—make piles, one for each of the eight sections. One here, Eight there."

Silently, they did as he asked, sorting through what they'd traced until eight low stacks of wax paper stood on the Table. Nervous, Thomas picked up one page from each pile, making sure that they were all from the same day. Some of them waved and produced a strange sound, and he tried to stabilize his heartbeat. _It's going to work. It has to._

He laid them one on top of the other until he was looking at the eight different sections of the Maze at once. What he saw amazed him. Almost like that magic trick Newt had seemed to be waiting for, an image developed. Besides him, Teresa gasped.

Lines crossed each other up an down, left to right, so much that what Thomas held in his hands looked like a checkered grid. But certain lines in the middle, the ones that appeared more often than any other, silhouetted a slightly darker image. It was sublte, but it was there.

In the exact center of the page was the letter _F._

 

Thomas and Minho didn't stop until they were halfway to the last dead end of Section Eight. They made a good time, because it quickly became obvious that they were running down the same corridors and turning at the same turns as the day before. The walls hadn't moved from the day before; everything was exactly the same. There was no need for taking notes; their only objective was to get to the end and make their way back carefully, looking for things previously unnoticed. 

Minho allowed a twenty-minute break before they got back at it. They stayed mostly silent, eating an apple, catching their breaths and drinking some water. Thomas rolled his ankles, which felt a bit weak, to prepare them for the upcoming trip. 

The Keeper only talked once before they started making their way back to the Glade. He said it in such a hushed voice, Thomas thought he had imagined it. Maybe it was his own mind, maybe they were his own regrets and complexes. But he heard it anyway: _Be careful what you do, shank._

They were silent as they ran. Minho had taught him that speaking only wasted energy, so he focused on his pace and his breaths. Deeper and deeper into the Maze they went, each alone with his thoughts and the sounds of their feet thumping the floor.

Thomas thought about Newt, Teresa, Newt and Teresa, Teresa and Newt and his own relationship with each of them. They were more similar than he had originally thought; both of them had given him a special feeling from the very beggining, like he knew them from before. Both of them felt familiar and special; Newt felt like home, and Teresa felt warm and nice. When he saw them, he felt a very similar urge to hold their hands. 

What was wrong with him? Did he love two people at the same time? Why? If he was as into Newt as he had originally thought, then why did Teresa feel that way to him? Did that mean that he wasn't really into the boy, or that he wasn't enough? But there was no way Newt couldn't be enough. More like the opposite; but then, again, Teresa... And so it went. In the third hour, Teresa surprised him, speaking in his mind.

_We're making progress—found a couple more words already. But none makes sense yet._

Thomas' first reaction was to fear whether she had heard him; the second, to ignore her, to deny once again that someone could actually enter his mind and invade his privacy; the third, trying to talk to her because, God, he _wanted_ to.

 _Can you hear me?_ he asked, picturing the images in his mind, mentally throwing them out to her. Focusing, he tried again. _Can you hear me?_

 _Yes!_ she replied. _Really clearly the second time you said it._

Thomas was shocked, so much he almost quit running. It had worked!

 _Wonder why we can do this,_ he thought. He alreaddy accused the mental effort, feeling a headache already forming.

 _Maybe we were lovers,_ she said.

Thomas tripped and crashed to the ground. Smiling innocently at Minho, who'd turned to look at him without slowing down, Thomas got back up and caught up to him. _What?_ he finally asked.

_This is so bizarre. It's like you're a stranger, but I know you're not._

_Sorry to break it to you,_ Thomas thought, sensing a pleasant chill despite all the sweating and the physical activity, _but we_ are _strangers. I just met you, remember?_

 _Don't be stupid, Tom. I think someone put something in our brains so we could do this telepathy thing._ Before _we came here. Which makes me think we already knew each other._

_Brains altered? How?_

_I don't know—some memory I can't quite grasp. I think we did something big. I wish I knew what. Also, this code has to mean something,_ she added. _And the thing I wrote on my arm—_ WICKED is good.

 _Maybe it won't matter,_ he answered. _Maybe we'll find an exit. You never know._

Each time he mentally spoke, he felt a pocket of air floating in his chest, a swelling that both annoyed and thrilled him. He slowly realised that she may, as he feared, be able to read his thoughts even when they weren't talking.

 _You still there?_ he asked.

_Yeah, but this always gives me a headache._

At least he wasn't the only one. _My head hurts, too._

 _Okay,_ she said. _See you later._

 _No, wait!_ Even though he was afraid that she might discover his complicated feelings and love triangle—in which he wasn't sure if any of the other two tips liked him back or not—, she helped the time pass.

 _Bye, Tom,_ she answered. _I'll let you know if we figure anything out._

_Teresa—what about the thing you wrote on your arm?_

Some seconds passed. No answer.

_Teresa?_

She was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY KLUNK, GUYS, 2100+ HITS! I can't, seriously! I'm mind-blown by the numbers I'm getting on NV. Thank you so much for all the support! I owe you a huge one!


	26. Thomas does a little bit of suicide (¿)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas is determined to crack the code and solve the Maze-and he can only think of one way of achieving it: he must get his memories back. But remembering can't be done without being stung by the monsters that keep the Maze, and the Gladers are definitely not going to approve his idea...

It was midmorning when Thomas and Minho stepped into the Glade again. None of them felt like talking at all, though they had to tell the Gladers what they had discovered: there was no way out.

The walls weren't even moving anymore. As Minho said, the creators had been playing with them, the way a cat plays with mice before eating them, and now it was time to end the game. There was no exit. Not even the Grievers payed attention to them anymore, and they had bumped into some; it was like they were toys that had become too old, and didn't interest the creators nor their monsters anymore.

How did Thomas fit in the scheme? He knew he had helped build the Maze, and maybe this was a part of a bigger plan. The thought that he knew what was going on before but couldn't recall it now infuriated him. Why had he forgotten everything? There must be something in his mind that could save them all. According to Teresa, they both knew everything about the Maze before. If only he could find a way to take the memories back.

Even though he felt like he was dying inside, and despite the chaos that reigned when they left, the two Runners entered a Glade in which everyone was working their usual. Newt soon approached them, running.

"Hey," he greeted them, patting Thomas' shoulder. "You're the first to come back. What happened? Tell me you've got good news."

The childlike look of hope his face held broke Thomas' heart. He desperately wanted to have something good for him, the promise of a better tomorrow, but just _didn't_. He refused to speak, looking away from Newt's face. Minho stared nowhere. "Nothing," he said. "The Maze is a freaking joke."

Newt looked confused. Thomas decided he couldn't let him know that they were lost. Not yet. Plus, they had the maps, didn't they? Maybe Teresa and the others had discovered something useful. Maybe... Maybe they had the answers Newt wanted to hear. "He's just discouraged," he explained. "We didn't find anything different. The walls haven't moved, no exits—nothing. Did the Grievers come last night?"

Darkness passed over Newt's face. "Yeah. They took Adam."

It was just like Gally said. _One person per night.  
_

 

The rest of the Runners returned within an hour; none had found anything. The atmosphere was thick with gloom, and almost everyone had abandoned their tasks.

Thomas' hope was entirely put on the Maze's code. If there was an answer, it had to be hidden there. They had already analyzed everything else, and it was the only possibility they had left. It had to be. 

_Teresa?_ he said in his mind. _Where are you? Did you figure anything out?_

_We're still in the basement. Newt had some Gladers help us trace the Maps, and I think we've already figured all the code out._

_Serious?_ His throat dried.

_Come down here._

_Coming._

He didn't feel exhausted anymore as he ran to the room.

 

 _Come check this out,_ Teresa said in his mind as soon as he stepped in. Thomas gulped, already feeling dizzy with excitation and the headache that came with telepathy. Newt, who was by the girl's side, gave him a strange look, and Thomas stuck a thumb up.

 _Don't talk in my head while Newt's around. I don't want him knowing about our... gift._ It was some kind of fear what provoked this. Thomas feared that Newt would turn his back on him if he discovered it. He already sensed that the boy was confused with Thomas' constant protective attitude towards the girl; if he knew that they also talked telepathically... Maybe he'd give up on Thomas. A part of him knew that it was a stupid fear, but it was a very small one. The rest was busy freaking out.

"Come check this out," the girl repeated, this time out loud.

"I'll get down on my knees and kiss your bloody feet if you can figure it out," Newt added.

"Well, gotta try then," Thomas joked. He took the paper Teresa held out for him and read it quickly. There were numbered circles running down the left side, one to six. Next to each one was a word written in big blocky letters.

**1 FLOAT**

**2 CATCH**

**3 BLEED**

**4 DEATH  
**

**5 STIFF**

**6 PUSH**

That was it. The code. Six words.

He looked at Teresa, desperated. "That's all? Are you sure you got the right order?"

She took the paper back. "The Maze has been repeating this for months—after it spells _PUSH,_ it goes a week without saying anything and then starts over with _FLOAT,_ so we figured that's the first word. We then numbered them as they came."

Thomas swallowed the little saliva his mouth could produce and closed his eyes, feeling his heart sink in his ribcage. That was it. That was his code.

It didn't work.

When he guessed that the Maze was a code, he was so excited, and it had taken so long, that he sort of imagined it would all come deciphered and in perfect order. He hadn't thought that the mystery would consist of some random words. How were they supposed to get out with them? He exhaled slowly. If _only_ he had his memories. If only he could remember how to...

He froze in the middle of a sentence with which he was answering Newt, something he didn't even think about as he spoke. He didn't even remember the topic when dizziness hit him; he had to lean on the wall to avoid falling to the floor.

Because _maybe_ he could get the memories back.

Maybe it was _possible._

It was a terrible, awful idea. Probably one of the worst he had had ever. But his instinct told him that he was right about this. That it was something that he had to do.

"Tommy?" Newt asked, concerned. He placed a hand on Thomas shoulder and squeezed. "What's wrong? You just went white as a ghost." 

Thomas shook his head, composing his self. From the corner of the eye, he saw Teresa looking at them in a weird way, and his heart fluttered in his chest like a newborn butterfly that flies for the first time. _Not now._ "Nothing, sorry. My eyes are hurting—I think I need some sleep." He rubbed his temple for further effect.

 _Are you okay?_ Teresa asked in his mind. Even her mental voice was full of concern, almost as much as Newt's. It made him feel something warm in his stomach.

_Yeah. Seriously, I'm tired. I just need some rest._

Newt squeezed his shoulder again, tender. "Well, you spent the bloody night running in the Maze—go take a nap."

As he left, he felt like the worst man to ever walk the Earth. Not only he was about to do something that might be a righteous suicide, but he was also lying to Newt and Teresa. He was positive they were the two people he cared the most about in his life, and he was going to do _that_ without even telling them. He wanted to yell at himself, but at the same time, he knew that there was no other way. Even if he hated it. 

It was a fact; they needed clues, they needed _memories_. More concretely, the memories of a creator. _His memories._

So he was going to get stung by a Griever. He was going to undergo the Changing _on purpose._

 

He didn't talk to anyone during the rest of the day. Teresa tried several times, but he shut his mind and didn't answer to her telepathic questions. Newt also asked him at first, but let go when he noticed that Thomas wasn't planning on talking at all, and that he wanted to be left alone.

Eventually, when the night hour fell upon them—as there was no colour in the sky, no actual night came—, he went to the Homestead with everyone else. It was time for another stressful, sleepless night.

The Builders had repared the holes left by the hideous creatures in their barricades. Now they looked like a bunch of drunken guys had built them, but at least they looked solid enough. Newt and Alby, who already felt well enough to walk on his feet again, insisted that everyone rotated their sleeping places every night.

Thomas ended up in the living room with the same people he had been with when the first attack was launched. No one talked, and he didn't know if they were actually sleeping or just too afraid to say a thing. Unlike the other time, Teresa was allowed to sleep in the building with the rest of the Gladers. She had curled up near him, making him feel warm, and he could sense that she was sleeping. Actually _sleeping._

There was no sleep for him tonight, though. All he could think of was his plan. He tried to imagine every possible situation that could happen, and solved them mentally so that all options ended up the way he wanted them to. Just like the previous night, anticipation was a heavy burden to carry, weighing on his chest and making it hard to breathe.

And then, the Grievers came.

Mimicking the other time, everyone crowded against the wall farthest from the windows, doing their best to keep quiet. Thomas chose a corner next to Teresa, hugging his knees, staring at the dusty glass. Waiting. Calculating. Hoping.

He was afraid, of course. All his nervous endings were collapsing with fear that it would all go wrong, even though he had foreseen most of the possibilities. He would've been either stupid or completely mad if he wasn't scared. But he knew that this was their only chance to get out alive, and he needed to do it. He needed to make up for trapping them all in the Maze.

A sound of metal scrapping against wood echoed through the Homestead; not a soul moved. Thomas couldn't even hear the rest of the boys' breaths. More noises joined in, coming from all directions; the closest came from the window to their right. The air in the room seemed to freeze, and it felt like breathing a million icicles. Thomas pressed his nails into his palms, anticipation killing him.

Something boomed upstairs, shaking the whole house, and a festival of screams broke loose. No one in their room moved as the Grievers attacked right above their heads.

"They got Dave!" someone yelled. A choir of yelps and cries followed as the wood creaked again; now that they got their night prey, the Grievers were retiring.

A terrible crash sounded right outside their door, followed by the noise of wood being tritured, as if some plague of termites was devouring the stairwell. A second later came another explosion of ripping wood: the froont door. The Griever had come right through the house and was now leaving.

It was his signal. A burst of fear shot through his body, draining all colour. It was now or never.

He jumped up and ran to the door of the room, banging it open. He heard Newt yell, but he ignored his voice and the needles in his heart and flew downstairs, sidestepping and jumping over miriads of shattered pieces of wood. There was a monstruous hole where the door had stood, leading into the dull gray night. He headed straight for it and ran out into the glade.

 _Tom!_ Teresa screamed in his mind. _What are you doing!_

He ignored her as well. He kept running.

The Griever rolled towards the West Door, churning and clicking. His beastly companions had gathered in the courtyard and were following their partner into the Maze. Without hesitating, and knowing that the others would think he was trying to kill himself, Thomas sprinted in their direction until he found himself in the middle of the pack of creatures. Taken by surprise, the Grievers hesitated.

Thomas jumped on the one holding Dave—a kid he had never spoken to—, trying to tear him from the monster's pincers. Teresa screamed so loud in his mind it felt like someone had stabbed him in the brain.

Three of the Grievers attacked at once, spikes, needles, pincers and claspers flying in from all directions. Thomas knocked all metallick arms away as he kicked the Grievers' bulbous bodies. He only wanted to be stung, not taken. The merciless attacks went in crescendo, and Thomas felt pain explode all over his body, needle pricks that informed him of his success. Screaming, he kicked and pushed and thrashed, throwing his body into a roll, trying to get away from them. When he found an open spot to get up again, he did so in less than a second and ran with all he got.

As soon as he scaped, he Grievers gave up on him and disappeared into the Maze as if nothing had just happened. Thomas tried to walk towards the Homestead but collapsed to the ground, groaning from pain.

 _Pain, pain, pain. Boom-boom, boom-boom. Pain-pain, pain-pain._ His heart bombed pain, his lungs inhaled pain, his eyes saw pain, his blood brought pain to every cell. _Pain-pain, pain-pain._ Maybe if he stopped breathing it would hurt less. _Pain-pain, pain-pain._

Newt was on him within a second, followed immediately by Chuck, Teresa, several others. The boy grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him up with a powerful push, gripping him under the arms. Thomas was too in pain to notice it. He only realized when the image before his eyes changed. He was now facing the sky.

Someone grabbed his legs, and suddenly he was being carried across the courtyard. He felt delirious, lost in the vast mist of pain and exhaustion. The world, the faces, the stars spun around before his eyes, like they were all being rinsed inside a washing machine and he was sitting in front of it, staring.

The stars disappeared, and he was left on a squishy couch. The sounds twisted and pitched, too, like when you start tuning a radio in and out and only get some fragments of the emissions. A certain someone stopped the senseless zapping of voices, reclaiming the few remains of Thomas' attention.

"What were you _doing_!" Newt yelled in his face. "How could you be so bloody stupid!"

 _Of course._ Klunk. He hadn't told them anything not to hurt them, but he guessed the gruesome fight with the monsters had done that already. Remorse struck him once again. A drop landed on his cheek. It was fresh, and Thomas felt so hot. Everything felt delirious and surreal. He wondered if doing drugs felt like this. It was like entering a mental Wonderland.

 _No. Stop. You... You have to... Tell them..._ "No..." Everything was fading into darkness. "Newt... you don't understand..."

"Shut up!" Newt shouted. "Don't waste your energy!"

Someone ripped his clothes away to check the damage. Chuck's voice sounded somewhere nearby. At least he was okay.

"...Stung dozens... Not..."

Teresa squeezed his right ankle; he knew because he _felt_ her mind there. He could only try to explain it to himself that way. _Why, Tom?_ she asked. _Why would you do that?_

_Because..._

He couldn't even form words anymore.

Newt yelled for the Grief Serum. Groggily, Thomas registered more cursing than actual asking. A minute later, something pierced his arm. He hadn't realized that he was cold inside, but when a calming warmth spread from the pricking point, lessening the pain, he thanked it. The world was still collapsing in, though.

The room spun faster, all colours blurrying and mixing and morphing and changing. He _had_ to tell them. There... What...?

It...

No.

Now.

Yes.

_Tell._

"Don't worry," he whispered, hoping they could hear him. "I... did it on purpose..."

_Out._


	27. The only choice that matters (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry Newtmas, guys.

There was no concept of time as he went through the Changing.

At first, it was pretty much like his first memory of the Box—dark and cold. This time, though, he had no sensation of anything touching him. He floated in emptiness, staring into a void of black. There was nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing to smell. There was nothing. It was like someone had stolen all five senses, leaving him in a vacuum.

The initial fear morphed into curiosity, and then into boredom. 

Finally, after an interminable wait that could have lasted either a second or a whole year, things started changing.

He felt wind in his face and clothes. The air began moving around him, and a column of spinning grayish smoke began forming in front of him. There was nothing he could do; he could only stare as the tornado got bigger and bigger. Breezes that turned into gales slapped his face and his body, hurting him. The column of mist stretched and stretched until he could see nothing else. And then it started getting closer to  him.

Was this the Changing? Where were the memories? Maybe it didn't work on him because he wasn't like the others. Maybe he had undergone the excruciating pain of a hundred stings for nothing. Or was this the normal thing?

He had no more time to wonder after the column hit him; he could only see flat white all around. And then it consumed him; the mist took his mind, memories flooded his thoughts.

Everything else turned into pain.

 

"...Thomas? ...You hear...? ...Chuck, are you ...kay? Don... die."

His brain was collapsing with information. It was like his memories had been kept from him behind a prey that had just broken, and they were now flooding his mind with the strength of a thousand roaring tempests. It was somehow similar to standing under an electric storm, because each time a memory was put back in its place, he felt as if lightning struck him. And there were many memories.

It was both mentally and physically exhausting, comparable to a non-stop marathon across the Maze being chased by Grievers. His whole body ached from the effort of accepting and making room for the memories of a whole life. For all the secrets. For all the knowledge. Thomas suspected that the marathon with the Grievers would have been less painful.

Everything came crashing into his mind. The Glade, the Grievers, the stinging needle, the Changing, the experiment. The Maze couldn't be solved. Their only way out was something they'd never expected. Something terrifying. He was responsible for it all. _All._

The visions finally made sense, because now he recalled the full story. He had all the pieces of the puzzle and he had them in place. He now remembered how he met Newt and Teresa, his heart's two big question marks. He remembered what they were to him. He remembered...

 

_We're supervising the plans of the Maze. One single wall out of place and it won't work. Teresa insists that not even the grown-ups can be as stupid as to mess up building what we've designed, but I definitely don't trust them that much. Not when they're constructing the result of years of research._

 

_Teresa smiles at me from her table. She's sipping her mug of tea, from which a shy spiral of smoke faintly rises. She's always loved it hot._

 

_I want to get to my room and write today's events down in the notebook; more precisely, in the ripped pages. My little experiment has turned out so well I can barely stand sitting in this chair, studying more and more patterns. I want to shout it out to the world._

 

_"We'll escape and I'll marry her," my friend confesses with a tiny smile. "I can't stand working here anymore. I can see in her eyes she doesn't, either. Rachel wants to go out and explore the world, how it's slowly recovering from the solar eruptions."_

_"And do you want to go? Out there, with all the infected, famine and death?" I ask, puzzled._

_"Of course I do. If it makes her happy, I'll follow her to the end of the world."_

_I don't get it. Why would he risk WICKED's safety for a girl's sake?  
_

 

_"Are you sure that these... monsters will work?"_

_Teresa nods. "They will."  
_

 

_"You have to choose, Thomas!" Nikola tells me, urgence in his voice. "You have to choose one! Who? You can only protect one. Only one, Thomas. Only one."_

 

"...you hear me?"

Thomas didn't want to answer. His mind had shut down after the pain had become too much, and he was afraid that consciousness would trigger it again. Even though he felt bad for his friends, for what he had put them under, the fear weighed more. He did nothing.

_You have to choose, Thomas! You have to choose one! Who? You can only protect one. Only one, Thomas. Only one._

The election he had feared all along, ever since Teresa appeared in the Box. The choice he didn't want to make. The one his heart needed. The one his mind wasn't able to face. The one to change his life.

"Thomas, it's Chuck. Are you okay? Please don't die, dude."

He knew he _had_ to choose, but just couldn't. He was afraid that, if he did so, the non-elected one would painfully walk out of his life, and he needed them both. The question was, who did he need the most? 

Was it possible to love two people at the same time? If so, how was he supposed to choose? 

Groaning, Thomas forced his eyes open. Chuck's pudgy face was there, staring with wide eyes that lit up as a smile spread across his face. Despite it all, despite the crappy situation they were stuck in, Chuck smiled.

"He's awake!" he yelled to no one in particular. "Thomas is awake!"

The booming sound of his voice made Thomas wince. He shut his eyes again, but the expected blackness didn't come. Two images overlapped in front of him, no matter how much he squeezed his eyelids shut: Newt's face, Teresa's. Newt, Teresa, Teresa, Newt. 

NewtTeresaNewtTeresaNewtTeresaNewtTeresaNewtTeresaNewtTeresaNewtTeresaNewtTeresa.

TeresaNewtTeresaNewtTeresaNewtTeresaNewtTeresaNewtTeresaNewtTeresaNewtTeresaNewt.

Newt or Teresa.

Teresa or Newt.

From what he could recall, love was a good thing. If so, why did he feel like someone was ripping his heart in two?

"I'm so glad you're alive! You're lucky I don't give you a big kiss," Chuck excitedly said.

"Please don't do that, Chuck." Thomas opened his eyes again and forced himself to sit up in the bed in which he lay. He stretched his legs. "How long did it take?"

"Three whole days. We put you in the Slammer at night to keep you safe—brought you back here during the days. Thought you were dead and done about thirty times, but here you are! You look brand-new!"

Thomas coughed, feeling his throat sore and dry. "Did the Grievers come?"

Chuck lowered his eyes. Even though Thomas didn't really know Zart, he felt sad that they took him. "Why do you think that they're taking only one shank at a time?" the boy asked. Thomas felt a sour flavour in the back of his mouth—sometimes, knowing sucked.

Right when Chuck was talking about how Minho and the Runners had scoured every inch of the Maze looking for a way to use the code, they heard a hellish noise coming from the other side of the door.

"...told ya to bloody watch! Bloody klunk, I go to the toilet and the shank decides to wake up? And you shuck-faces don't tell me? Heads gonna roll. Your sorry asses better thank I'm not on the mood right now."

Thomas knew that accent.

The door flung open, and an outraged Newt stormed into the room, his face scarlet due to anger. Chuck stared, wide-eyed, as the boy sent everyone packing, and then buried his face in Thomas' arm.

"You too, Chuckie. Gonna chat for a while with this bloody shank about suicide."

Thomas offered Chuck a sorry smile, shrugging. 

"I hope you survive, Thomas," the kid whispered as he got up to leave. "He's been angrier than I've ever seen him, and trust me, we've angered him countless times."

"I'll try to," he answered. "Wish me luck."

With a scowl that could've scared a fierce dragon away from its treasure, Newt made Chuck practically flee from the room. When the boy closed the door, everything fell silent. None of them said a word while Newt took his time to grab a chair from the corner—Chuck had stood all along— and put it beside Thomas' bed. While he was clearly trying to discern whether he should murder Thomas or not, his target was busy facing one of the worst choices he'd ever coped with. 

"So..." Newt began. His voice was completely flat, showed no emotion at all. Thomas' gut twisted in anticipation. It wasn't going to be pleasant. "Ya woke."

Afraid that if he talked he would say something that pissed Newt off even further, Thomas simply nodded.

"Congrats. No, really—congrats for makin' me go through the worst days of my life, Thomas! I'm so grateful right now!" Newt's burning anger melted his glacial apparent calm. The temperature of the room seemed to rocket up as his voice rose to yells. "Do you ever think of anything besides your own ass, Thomas? Do you? Have you ever considered stoppin' playin' bloody hero? When you went into the Maze at night a mere day after arriving, I thought that you couldn't be any more stupid. And right when I think you're finally thinkin' some reason, you bloody run into the bloody pack of Grievers and let them do the shuck they want with you, sting you everywhere! What are you playing at, Thomas? What's your shuck game? Because I'm tired of watching!"

Newt's screams slipped into Thomas' ears and reached his brain, but he didn't really hear them.

_You have to choose, Thomas!_

"What the shuck is wrong with you!? Ya wanna kill yourself? What the bloody klunk is going on, Thomas? You'll have to explain it to me, because I don't get it. I'm too bloody stupid to get it, Tommy. You wanna be the hero at all risk? You wanna die? You wanna what, Thomas?" Newt's initial anger, which had been like a roaring lion, now turned into a mixture of concern, exhaustion, pain and suffering. "Ya know, I trusted you, shank. I really did. I hoped you would get us outta there, thought you were special. You made us think ya were. I..." His voice broke. "I thought we'd lost you when all Grievers stung you, Tommy. I haven't slept a wink in three days, waiting for you to recover, to wake up so that you can explain this to me. Because I can't figure things out. I can't, Tommy, I can't, and I can't carry on anymore. This is too much."

_"You have to choose one!"_

_Newt or Teresa, both looking at me, worried, urging me. Nikola holding the key. WICKED coming after us.  
_

_"Only one, Thomas. Only one."_

 

He chose.

 

Maybe that's why he grabbed Newt's face with both hands and crashed his lips against his, like the world depended on it.

 

Because _his_ world did.

 

From his memories, Thomas knew that it wasn't their first kiss. But it felt like it was. After two years and a half of not having him by his side, of suffering behind the screens, of crying of rage and helplessness while Newt suffered in the Maze, it was a reencounter. A promise. A question and an answer. A first kiss after so long.

They say that the best part of the kiss comes before lips touch. They say it is that moment in silence in which eyes dive into each other's and souls talk without a word. They say it is _that_ connection, that feeling that you're with the right person, that feeling that you belong. For him, after so long, it all came while actually kissing Newt. Their silence was full of meaning, and he could feel Newt in his lips, talking without using his voice. Telling the story of a boy who was afraid to love, but couldn't help it. Their lips fitted like two pieces of the finest-built puzzle, like they had been designed to be on each other's, and they felt like home to Thomas.

While he moved his lips to caress every inch of Newt's, he finally knew where he belonged. Who home was to him. 

He loved Newt, and he could finally admit it to the world and to himself. 

He loved his strength. 

He loved the way he tried to play leader so that the rest didn't freak out. 

He loved the way he talked, the way his British accent thickened whenever he was altered. 

He loved the way sarcasm was his best friend. 

He loved the way he called him Tommy, like every letter was something precious. 

He loved the way he laughed, like a thousand bells ringing. 

He loved the way he fit in his chest. 

He loved the way he shouted at him whenever Thomas did something stupid. 

He loved the way he smiled, excited, whenever Thomas waved at him. 

He loved the way his face was enough to lift his spirits after a long day running in the Maze. 

He loved the way he really was inside, fragile and full of doubts, and also his outer self, confident and determined.

Thomas loved Newt, and he loved loving him.

 

Thomas intended the kiss to be real quick, but once in, he just couldn't pull apart. Newt's lips were like heaven, and kissing him was beyond all imaginable. It was a hidden Wonderland. It was a drug. It was a glass of watter after traversing a desert. It was an angel in the middle of darkness. It was his addiction, and one he didn't want to go to rehab for. _Ever_.

After the initial surprise, Newt answered with an unexpected passion. He stood up, throwing the chair to the floor, and cupped his own hands on Thomas' cheeks, leaning in for further proximity and contact. The air they breathed was the same; their noses rubbed against each other's in a marvellous waltz as they moved their heads to the sides to get better angles, reach insolit places and dive further into the kiss.

 

They finally separated when Newt bent a knee on the bed and accidentally put all his weight on Thomas, making the latter fall backwards and bounce slightly against the mattress. Newt's lips slipped from Thomas, though, as he was still clinging onto his face, he fell as well. Their foreheads collided, and that somehow made them laugh.

 

It was the lightest laugh Thomas had ever heard from Newt. He sounded free. 

 

It was the happiest laugh Newt had ever heard from Thomas. He sounded complete.

 

"Ya shank know how to end a discussion," Newt finally laughed. One would've expected them to feel uncomfortable, but he felt more at ease than ever before. He felt like he had been set free, like they had relieved him from a heavy burden.

"I know many things," Thomas answered, biting his lips and enjoying the warmth in his stomach, his cheeks, his ears, all over his body. All tiredness from the Changing was gone. He felt invincible, able to do anything he wanted. To sail the seven seas, to discover the undiscovered, to conquer the universe.

"Sure you do," Newt murmured, nuzzling against Thomas. He fit so well in the curve of his neck that Thomas was even surer that their bodies were designed to belong together. 

Laying with Newt by his side, Thomas felt full of life. He wanted to shout and to jump and to run and to laugh and to sing and to hug and to cheer and to kiss Newt again and again and again and again and again. He wanted to compose a song, two, three, a whole CD, a discography about Newt. He wanted to tell everyone how happy he was. He wanted to worship Newt the way he deserved, and he wanted to spend the rest of his days doing so.

After struggling for so long, only now he realized that there had never been a choice. There had never been an alternative. Teresa had never been a rival to Newt, because Thomas did love her, but the way you love a sister, a mother, a cousin. Teresa was just as close to his heart as Newt, but in a completely different way; Teresa was his family. Newt was his everything.

 

"Newt, I'm sorry for what I did," Thomas whispered after a while. 

Newt didn't answer right away, and he wondered whether he had fallen asleep. "I am, too," he finally answered, catching Thomas off-guard. "I felt worse than I'd ever felt before, and trust me, my heart isn't a nice place. All I could think of was that I was gonna lose ya, and that you didn't know..." He seemed to choke over words. Thomas gently squeezed his hand and kissed his forehead, marvelled that he could finally do such a thing. There were so many spots he wanted to kiss. He made himself a mental note to do it later. "You didn't know how I felt."

"Well, thank Grievers I didn't die, then," Thomas answered.

Newt's face darkened. "Thanking them ain't any close to what I actually want to do to shuck Grievers."

It was so easy to laugh now. Thomas did so. "No, me neither."

They didn't talk much after that, each sunk in their own thoughts. After some minutes of efervescent happines, Thomas remembered what he had discovered. What had come back to him. What they had to do now.

Making a titanic effort, he sat straight, rubbing his eye with the palm of the hand. It wasn't going to be an easy task. "What's wrong?" Newt asked, not bothering to hide his concern. "Are you alright? Ya need somethin'?"

Thomas looked at him and sighed. "Get Alby and Minho," he finally said in answer. "Tell them we need to have a Gathering. Soon as possible."

Newt winked. "Serious?"

He sighed again. "Dude, I just went through the Changing. Do _you_ think I'm serious?"


	28. Holy crap, you're human (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After going through the Changing, Thomas finally understands the Maze—why the Creators built it, its purpose and, most importantly, that there's no solution at all. He has a plan, though, maybe the only one which might get them out of the Maze, but no one will listen to him. So what are they going to do?

After Newt left to call Minho and Alby—not without pecking Thomas on the cheek and the lips, giving him mini strokes each time he touched him—, Thomas let himself fall backwards on the bed again, with a huge smile spread throughout his face. He felt on cloud nine, and even though he reckoned that feeling so happy while the creators were trying to scare the klunk out of them and kill them, he couldn't help thinking of himself as the luckiest shank on Earth.

He closed his eyes, trying to focus despite the constant tickling in his stomach. There was someone important he wanted to talk to. _Teresa._

The intensity of her voice surprised him. It was as if she were sitting next to him. _That was a really stupid thing to do, Tom. Really, really stupid. I pretty much hated you the last couple days. You should've seen yourself. Your skin, your veins..._

 _You_ hated _me?_ It wasn't the kind of welcome you expected after coming back from the verge of death.

Teresa remained quiet for a while. _That's just my way of saying I would've killed you if you died._

Smiling, he felt a bubble of warmth explode in his chest and expand throughout his body like the waves of an earthquake. _Thanks, I guess._

_How much do you remember?_

_Enough,_ he admitted. _What you said about the two of us and what we did to them... What I saw..._

_It was true? Wait, what did you see?_

He scratched the back of his neck. He'd forgotten for a second the fact that he hadn't told anyone about the visions. Should he tell Teresa? After all, she was like his sister. And siblings trust each other. _I... When you hadn't arrived yet, I started having some... visions with someone. They were short scenes of my..., of_ our _past at WICKED. I guessed from them that I worked for the creators. Anyway, now I've got the whole picture. We did some bad things, Teresa._

Teresa didn't say anything. Thomas could, anyway, feel her frustration building.

 _Did you learn anything to help us get out of here?_ she finally asked.

_Maybe. But it won't be easy. We need a Gathering, and I'll ask for you to be there—I don't have the energy to say it twice. And Teresa?_

_Yeah?_

_The Maze can't be solved.  
_

He sensed hopelesness going back and forth between their minds; like he received Teresa's despair and bounced it back to her while she did the same with his strong trust that they could scape—even if there was no solution to the Maze.

 _I think we all know that now._ Thomas hated the pain in her voice—he could feel it in his mind.

_Don't worry; the Creators meant for us to escape, though. I have a plan. It is terrible, and some of us might die. Sound promising?_

_Big time. What's it?_

_I'll tell you later, in the Gathering,_ he rushed.

 _Hurry!_ she urged him. _Oh, and Thomas? Congrats._

 

An hour later, Thomas sat among the Keepers for the Gathering, just like he had a week or two ago. They hadn't let Teresa in, which pissed him off as much as it did her. Newt and Minho trusted her now, but the rest still had their doubts.

"All right, Greenie," Alby said, looking almost in good shape now. "Forget all the beat-around-the-bush klunk. Start talking."

Still feeling a bit queasy from the Changing and all the strong emotions—specially the one sitting next to him now—, Thomas forced himself to take a second to organize his thoughts.

"It's a long story," he began. Aware that they didn't have much time, he told them the gist of it. How the Creators were testing us, how the Maze wasn't meant to be solved. How only a few chosen ones would get out of the trial. "They want the winners—or survivors—to do something special, something important."

"What?" Newt asked. He discretely caressed Thomas' hand with a thumb.

"Let me start over," Thomas said, closing his eyes to exhale slowly. He let the foreign touch on his skin soothe him. "Every single one of us was taken when we were really young. I don't remember how or why—just glimpses and feelings that things changed in the world, that something really bad happened. I have no idea what. The Creators stole us, and I think they felt justified in doing it. Somehow they figured out that we have above-average intelligence, and that's why they chose us. I don't know, most of this is sketchy and doesn't matter that much anyway."

With a discrete cough, he cleared his throat while giving the Keepers some time to digest the information. It was nothing compared to what he still had to deliver, yet they already wore disbelief on their faces. 

"I can't remember anything about my family or what happened to them," he continued. "But after we were taken, we spent the next few years learning in special schools, living somewhat normal lives until they were finally able to finance and build the Maze. All our names are just stupid nicknames they made up—like Alby for Albert Einstein, Newt for Isaac Newton and me—Thomas. As in Edison."

He felt Newt tense by his side. He wanted to hug him and tell him it was alright more than anything, but he knew he couldn't risk it. He needed the Keepers to take him seriously and to convince them of doing what he had in mind; such a scene would've put almost all odds against him.

Alby looked like he'd been slapped. "Our names... these ain't even our real names?"

"What are you saying?" Frypan asked. "That we're freakin' orphans raised by scientists?"

"Yes," Thomas said, hoping his face wouldn't betray how depressed he felt. "Supposedly we're really smart and they're studying every move we make, analyzing us. Seeing who'd give up and who wouldn't. Seeing who'd survive it all. No wonder we have so many beetle blade spies running around this place. Plus, some of us have had things... Altered in our brains."

"I believe this klunk about as much as I believe Frypan's food is good for you," Winston grumbled, looking tired and indifferent. Frypan frowned at him.

"Why would I make this up?" Thomas said, his voice rising. He had gotten stung on _purpose_ to remember these things! "Better yet, what do you think is the explanation? That we live on an alien planet?"

He didn't realize he was standing on his feet until Newt got up as well and put a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to sit back down.

"Talk," he simply said. His eyes gleamed with trust.

"Okay, okay." He took in a deep breath to calm himself. "Somehow, they wiped our memories—not just our childhood, but all the stuff leading up to entering the Maze. They put us in the Box and sent us up here—a big group to start and then one a month over the last two years."

"But why?" Newt asked. "What's the bloody point?"

Thomas held up a hand for silence. "I'm getting there. Like I said, they wanted to test us, see how we'd react to what they call Variables, and to a problem that has no solution. See if we could work together—build a community, even. Everything was provided for us, and the problem was laid out as one of the most common puzzles known to civilization—a maze. All this added up to making us think there _had_ to be a solution, just encouraging us to work all the harder whole at the same time magnifying our discouragement at not finding one." He paused to check they were all listening. "What I'm saying is, there _is_ no solution."

Everyone started talking at once, questions overlapping each other. Thomas wished he could just insert all his knowledge into their brains.

"See? Your reaction proves my point. Most people would've given up by now. But we're different. We couldn't accept that a problem _can't_ be solved—specially when it's something as simple as a maze. Whatever the reason, it makes me sick! All of this—the Grievers, the walls moving, the Cliff—they're just elements of a stupid _test_. We're being used and manipulated. They want to keep our minds working toward a solution that was never there. Same thing goes for Teresa being sent here, her being used to trigger the Ending—whatever _that_ means—the place being shut down, gray skies, on and on and on. They're throwing crazy things at us to see our response, test our will. See if we'll turn on each other. In the end, they want the survivors for something importan."

Frypan stood up. "And killing people? That's a nice little part of their plan?"

Thomas felt a moment of fear, worried that the Keepers might suspect him for knowing too much. And it was about to get worse. "Yes, Frypan, killing people. The only reason the Grievers are doing it one by one is so we don't all die before it ends the way it's supposed to. Survival of the fittest. Only the best will escape."

The cook kicked his chair. "Well, you better start talking about this magical escape, then!"

"He will," Newt said quietly. "Shut up and listen._"

Minho, who'd been quiet all along, cleared his throat. "Something tells me I'm not gonna like what I'm about to hear."

"Probably not," Thomas admitted. He closed his eyes for a second and crossed his arms. "The Creators want the best of us for whatever their plans are. But we have to earn it." The room fell dead silent, every eye on him. "The code."

"The code?" Frypan repeated, this time hopeful. "What about it?"

The next sentences were going to be crucial. Thomas looked at him, pausing for effect. "It was hidden in the wall movements of the Maze for a reason. I should know—I was there when the Creators did it."

 

Thomas sat on an old bench near Box, thinking over and over again about the Gathering. 

He felt rather lonely, specially whenever he glanced at the dull gray sky and remembered it was his fault. Maybe not entirely, but partially. The Changing had also filled in the gaps in the memories concerning to creating the Maze. It wasn't a suspicion, but a certainty.

He couldn't really blame the Gladers for their reactions. Heck, he would've reacted the same way. Even as he talked—explained that he, along with Teresa, had helped creating the Maze, admitted that the two of them were telepathic, said they all had to jump into the Griever Hole to scape the Maze—he knew it sounded crazy. 

Trying to make up for all the bad news, Thomas volunteered to jump first; he earned being expelled. 

"You're leaving. Now," Newt demanded, pushing him towards the exit. "You've said enough for one meeting. We need to talk and decide what to do— _without_ you here. Wait for me by the Box. When we're done, you and I'll talk."

He started to turn around, but Thomas reached out and grabbed him. "You gotta believe me, Newt," he pleaded. "It's the only way out of here—we can do it, I swear."

Newt's face shadowed, confering him a gloomy aspect, and his voice came out as an angry rasp of a whisper. "Yeah, I specially loved the bit where you volunteered to get yourself killed, Mr. Noble."

"I... I have plenty of reasons," Thomas justified. He understood Newt's point, though. He would've felt the same way if Newt had been the one offering himself. "In some ways, it's my fault we're here. I'm sorry, Newt, I really am, but I have to go first. I gotta make up for what I did to you guys."

Newt's anger disappeared, his eyes suddenly filled with compassion. "If you really did help design the Maze, Tommy, it's not your fault. You're a _kid—_ you can't help what they forced you to do."

Thomas tried to buy Newt's words, but he couldn't. It didn't matter what he said, what anyone said. Thomas bore the responsibility anyway—and it only grew heavier the more he thought about it. "I just... feel like I need to save everyone. To redeem myself."

It sounded like Mr. Noble striking again. Even he knew it. But, surprisingly, Newt didn't lecture him as he expected—he hugged Thomas. His chin sunk inbetween Thomas' clavicles as he wrapped his torso with his arms. "You know what's funny, Tommy? I actually believe you. You just don't have an ounce of lying in those eyes of yours. And I can't bloody believe I'm about to say this, but... I'm going back in there to convince those shanks we should go through the Griever Hole, just like you said. Might as well fight the Grievers rather than sit around letting them pick us off one by one."

If Teresa's words in his mind had felt like a bubble of warmth in his chest, Newt's trust felt like a whole cascade of heat and strength. Thomas squeezed him between his arms. He was going to defend his suicidal idea in front of the Keepers, which right now were lions in the Roman colosseum rather than scared kids. He was too good to be real, yet there he was, between his arms. Blessed, that's how Thomas felt. Blessed.

"But listen to me," Newt continued, pulling away to hold up a finger. "I don't want another buggin' word about you dying and all that heroic klunk. If we're gonna do this, we'll take our chances—all of us. You hear me?"

"Loud and clear."

He should've felt happy. Instead, worry that the Keepers might hurt Newt for supporting him popped up, and didn't let go of him.

 

After, he talked to Teresa, tired of his own thoughts, frustrated and bored. _Can you hear me?_

 _Yeah,_ she replied. _Where are you?_

_By the Box._

_Coming._

Thomas realized how badly he needed her company. _Good. I'll tell you the plan; I think it's on._ He leaned back on the bench and put his right foot up on his knee, unsure of how Teresa would react. _We gotta go through the Griever Hole. Use that code to shut the Grievers down and open a door out of here._

A pause. _I figured it was something like that._

_Unless you've got any better ideas..._

_No. It's gonna be awful._

He clapped his hands together. _We can do this._

_Doubtful._

_Well, we have to try._

Another pause. Thomas moved on the bench, feeling numb from his waist downwards. _I think we're leaving tonight. Just come out here and we can talk more about it._

 _I'll be there in a few minutes,_ Teresa promised.

Thomas felt sick. The reality of what he had suggested, the plan Newt was trying to convince the Keepers to accept, was starting to kick in. It was dangerous, but the idea of fighting the Grievers instead of running away from them was terrifying. The idylical, best-case scenario was that only one of them would die—but that couldn't be trusted. Maybe the Creators would reprogram the beasts. And then everything would be lost.

He tried not to think about it while he waited for Teresa.

 

She found him sooner than he expected. As soon as she sat next to him, Thomas grabbed her hand and squeezed, so hard it must hurt. His thoughts were like leaves in a hurricane; they were everywhere, spinned and danced around, all trying to get his attention.

"Tell me," she said.

Thomas did. He recited every word he'd told the Keepers, and all the discussions and arguments. Teresa's face paled with worry and terror. "The plan was easy to talk about," he admitted after telling her everything. "But Newt thinks we should go _tonight_. It doesn't sound so good now." 

It terrified him to death to imagine Newt, Teresa and Chuck out there—after having faced the Grievers, he knew too well what it was like. He wanted to be able to protect them, keep them away from the experience, but he knew he couldn't.

"We can do it," she said quietly.

"Holy crap, I'm scared."

"Holy crap, you're human. You _should_ be scared."

Thomas didn't answer, and for a long time they just sat there, holding hands, no words spoken neither out loud nor telepathically. He tried to enjoy the fragile peace while it lasted.

"And Thomas?" Teresa called out after a while, squeezing his hand. "I know. You chose well."

Thomas squeezed back and closed his eyes, throwing his head back and praying for it all to be alright.


	29. Be careful. Don't die (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gladers have chosen—no more hiding in the Glade, waiting for the Grievers to come and take one of them. It's do or die, and they're not going to play chicken. But most of them haven't ever set a foot out in the Maze, and who knows which horrors have the Creators prepared to add a little fun to their desperate attempt at scaping?

When Newt came out of the Homestead, Thomas knew the time for rest was over.

He spotted them and ran limping towards them. Thomas noticed he'd let go of Teresa's hand without thinking about it. Newt finally stopped in front of them and crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at them. "You know this is bloody nuts, right?" 

Although Thomas took pride in being able to read Newt's emotions, his poker face this time was unreachable. There seemed to be a hint of victory in his eyes, though. Thomas stood up, feeling a rush of adrenaline.

"So they agreed to go?" he asked, chewing his lower lip in anticipation.

Newt nodded. "All of them. Wasn't as hard as I thought it'd be. Those shanks've seen what happens at night with those bloody Doors open. We can't get out of the stupid Maze. Gotta try _something_." Thomas felt like jumping all over the place. "Now we just have to convince the Gladers."

He sticked his right thumb out, pointing towards the Homestead, nearby where the Keepers had started gathering their work groups. Thomas knew it would've been even more difficult than persuading the Keepers had been.

"You think they'll go for it?" Teresa asked, finally standing to join them.

"Not all of them," Newt said. Thomas could feel his frustration. "Some'll stay and take their chances—guarantee it. But now, we gotta figure out who's going, who's staying. Get ready. Food, weapons, all that. Then we go. Thomas, I'd put you in charge since it was your idea, but it's going to be hard enough to get people on our side without making the Greenie our leader—no offence. So just stay low, okay? We'll leave the code business to you and Teresa—you can handle that from the background."

Thomas rubbed his sweaty palms against his trousers. "You make it sound easy."

Newt folded his arms again, looking at him closely. "Like you said—stay here, one shank'll die tonight. Go, one shank'll die. What's the difference?"

Thomas knew he was right when he said that. He was right about the Hole, the code, the door, the need to fight. He didn't know whether just one person would die; but if there was one thing his gut told him, it was not to admit any doubt.

Newt clapped him on the back. "Good that. Let's go to work."

 

"Who do you think I was named after?" Chuck asked.

Thomas had been staring at his dinner, moving it from one side of the plate to the other with the fork and thinking—when Chuck talked, he rose his gaze.

"Huh, I don't know. Maybe Darwin? The dude who figured out evolution."

Chuck laughed. It was a pleasant sound. They were eating what might be their last supper, surrounded by boys armed with wooden spears, kitchen knives and chunks of broken glass; at any moment, they would stand up and leave the Glade for good. A gloomy feeling had taken over everyone as they swallowed their carrots, and thus Thomas didn't expect hearing any laughter. It was soothing, in a way. 

"I don't think anyone has ever called him 'dude'." Chuck took another big bite of meat, and seemed to think what was the best time to talk, full mouth and all. "You know, I'm not really that scared. I mean, yes, we're going out into the Maze, and Grievers could kill us, or your plan may fail, or whatever. But the last few nights, sitting in the Homestead and waiting for a Griever to come and take us... Wondering if it'd be me that time... It's one of the worst things I've ever done. At least now we're _trying._ And at least..."

Chuck left the sentence hanging. "At least what?" Thomas asked. He didn't believe for a second that Chuck wasn't scared; it almost hurt seeing him trying to act brave.

"Well, everyone's speculating they can only kill one of us. Maybe I sound like a shuck, but it gives me some hope. At least most of us will make it through—just leaves a poor sucker to die. Better than all of us."

Thomas felt sick to his stomach learning that most people held onto the hope that only one would die. The more he thought about it, the less he believed it was true. The Creators knew the plan, were watching them—they might just reprogram the Grievers. But false hope was better than nothing. "Maybe we can all make it. As long as everyone fights."

Chuck looked at him, with his cheeks inflated due to the impressive amount of food in them. "You really think that, or you just trying to cheer me up?"

"We can do it." Thomas took a big drink of water. He'd never felt like such a liar in his life. People were going to die—but he was going to do everything possible to make sure Chuck wasn't one of them. Nor Teresa. Nor Newt. "I promised you that I would get you out of here, have you meet your parents. You can still plan on it."

Movement from other tables caught their attention. Newt and Alby were gathering the Gladers, telling everyone it was time to go. Alby seemed fine, but Thomas worried about his mental state. For him, Newt was in charge. He wanted to trust him as much as he trusted him, but he couldn't help fearing that he'd have a breakdown when out in the Maze again.

But there was no time to regret. This was it. They were going. Trying to ignore a specially strong wave of icy fear, Thomas stood up and grabbed his backpack. Chuck did the same, and they headed for the West Door, the one that would lead them to the Cliff. 

"You shanks ready?" Minho asked when they came up. Teresa, who had been discussing with him the plans, looked at Thomas and offered him a reassuring smile. "Thomas, this was all your idea, so it better work. If not, I'll kill ya before the Grievers can."

"Thanks," Thomas said. It came out like a squeak. Because what if he _was_ wrong? What if it _didn't_ work? What if the Creators _were_ tricking them into believing there was a way out to kill them all? What if this was only another experiment, another Variable, that wouldn't lead them anywhere? What if the memories he got were false ones? He hadn't thought about it before, but now the thought terrified him. Still, there was no going back now. He tried to push it aside.

Teresa shifted from one foot to the other, wringing her hands. "Are you okay?" he asked her.

"I'm fine," she answered, clearly not fine at all. She curved her lips in a shy smile. "Just anxious to get it over with."

"Amen, sister," Minho said.

 

Finally, Newt had everyone gathered, calling for quiet. "There're forty-one of us." He pulled the backpack he was holding onto his shoulders, and squeezed a thick wooden pole with barbwire wrapped around its tip. Thomas wouldn't have risked any argument with him with that thing in his hand. He looked deadly. "Make sure you've got your weapons. Other than that, there isn't a whole lot to buggin' say—you've all been told the plan. We're gonna fight our way through to the Griever Hole, and Tommy here's gonna punch in his little magic code and then we're gonna get payback on the Creators. Simple as that."

When he said his name, Newt motioned for him to step forward. He patted Thomas on the shoulder as he said 'magic little code'. Thomas could smell his hope; he redoubled his prayers that they would be alright.

Alby picked at the string of his bow, far from the group, as Newt gave his speech. A quiver of arrows hung from his shoulder, swinging slightly as he moved his arm. Thomas felt an increasing concern flooding his brain—that, somehow, Alby wasn't alright and would mess the plan up. He decided to keep an eye on him if he could.

"Shouldn't someone give a pep talk or something?" Minho asked, pulling Thomas' attention away from Alby.

"Go ahead." Newt shrugged.

Minho nodded and faced the crowd. "Be careful," he said dryly. "Don't die."

If he wasn't too scared to allow it, Thomas would've laughed.

"Great. We're all bloody inspired," Newt answered. He pointed towards the the Maze. "You all know the plan. After two years of being treated like mice, tonight we're making a stand. Tonight we're taking the fight back to the Creators, no matter what we have to go through to get there. Tonight the Grievers better be scared."

Someone cheered, and then someone else. Soon shouts and battle cries broke out, rising in volume. Thomas felt a trickle of courage inside him—like a small flame in the pit of his stomach. He clung onto it, adding more wood to the fire, blowing a bit so that it grew until his whole body was burning with determination. Newt was right. Tonight, they'd fight. Tonight, they'd make their stand, once and for all. Tonight, they'd free themselves from the Creators, stop being marionettes.

Thomas felt ready. He roared along with the other Gladers, even though he knew they should probably be quiet. He didn't care. The game was on.

Newt thrust his weapon into the air. He looked like a Greek god announcing the victory. "Hear that, Creators! We're coming!"

He leaned forward to grab Thomas' hand, not caring anymore about being seen. His smile was contagious; he was like a child running towards the waves of the sea for the first time in the summer, full of hope and this hot flush of victory and braveness. Thomas ran by his side, now sure about the whole thing. If there was a chance to get Newt out of the Maze, a chance that he could rebuild his life in a better place—a life Thomas wanted to be part of—, then bring it in. 

His limp was barely noticeable as they ran into the Maze. 

 

They kept a steady pace as they ran with the other Gladers towards the Cliff. He was already used to running the Maze, but this time, it was completely different. The sounds of feet stomping the floor echoed throughout the corridors, and there seemed to be hundreds of beetle blades hidden among the ivy, with their flashing red lights, watching them.

 _Scared?_ Teresa asked him as they ran.

 _No, I love things made of blubber and steel. Can't wait to see them._ Despite the initial flush of determination and enthusiasm, he didn't feel happy. He wondered whether he would ever again.

 _So funny,_ she asnwered.

She was right next to him now, after Newt and he had let go of each other's hand to guard one flank of the group each, but kept her eyes up ahead. _We'll be fine,_ he tried to soothe her. _Just stay close to me and Minho._

_Ah, my Knight in Shining Armor. What, you don't think I can fend for myself?_

Actually, he thought the exact opposite—Teresa looked tougher than some of the boys. _No. I was just trying to be nice._

The group was spread out across the full width of the corridor. They ran at a steady but quick pace—Thomas wondered how the non-Runners would keep it up. As if in response, Newt fell back, tapping Minho on the shoulder. "You lead the way now," Thomas heard him say. He let his own feet slow down slightly to catch up with him as Minho ran to the front.

"Are you okay?" he barely whispered. He didn't want to exhaust himself by talking.

Newt must've thought the same, because he simply nodded, offering Thomas a crooked grin. Still, sweat already covered his face, and Thomas worried that his limp would betray him in the middle of their way. He didn't say anything.

After the first quarter of hour, Thomas' courage turned into agony, one he knew to well; the agony of the 'what if's. Used to running in the autopilot mode on, he had plenty of time to think. It turned out that his mind was worse than any hooligan, because each step became a different fear, a different fatal ending, a different failure. He wondered when the Grievers would finally come. Wondered when the fight would begin.

And so it went as they kept moving, a chorus of strangled gulps from the Gladers who weren't used to running now filling the air. Thomas began feeling tired—and not only physically. Battling with his own mind was exhausting. As they ran, though, they saw no sign of the Grievers, and little by little, Thomas let a tiny trickle of hope ignite the fire again. Maybe they'd make it before being attacked.

Finally, after the longest hour of Thomas' life, they reached the long alley that lead to the Cliff—a short corridor to the right that branched off like a T. Thomas, whose heard knocked against his chest like an angry door-to-door salesman, sweat slicking his skin, moved up right behind Minho. The Keeper slowed at the corner, then stopped, holding up a hand to tell Thomas and the rest to do the same. Then he turned, a look of horror on his face.

"Do you hear that?" he whispered, paler every second.

Thomas shook his head, trying to snap out of the terror Minho's expression had given him.

Minho crept ahead and peeked around the corner, looking towards the Cliff. Thomas had seen him do it before, when they followed a Griever to the exact same point. Just like that time, Minho jerked back and turned to face him.

"Oh, no," he said through a moan. "Oh, no."

Then Thomas heard it.


	30. Float, catch, bleed, death, stiff... (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final battle has come. Packs of Grievers are in the Gladers' way to their freedom, but they're not going to bow down and flee. Not this time. While Hell breaks loose, Thomas, Teresa and Chuck run for the Griever Hole—the only place where there might be a chance to save their friends. Just how difficult can it get to type the code?

Grievers lurked ahead of them. Thomas didn't even have to look—he knew those sounds too well. The sound of their sticky and pudgy bodies rolling slowly on the floor. The sound of their metal pincers opening and closing, like the jaws of a shark. The sound of their needles scratching the floor. The sound of an almost certain death.

"There's at least a dozen of them. Maybe fifteen," Minho announced, rubbing his eyes. It was as if he had aged twenty years in a matter of seconds. "They're just waiting for us!"

Thomas felt fear claw his heart, grip it tighter than ever before. It was hard enough to fool one of the hideous beasts into falling into the abyss at the end of the Maze. Fighting fifteen sounded like a slow and painful suicide, yet it was their only way out. He looked over at Newt, about to say something, but words died in his throat when he saw his pale face—he'd never seen anyone's features twist as much with terror.

However, he quickly composed himself. Along with Alby, he moved up the line of Gladers to join Thomas and the others. Minho's words had already spread across the group, because the first thing  Newt said was "Well, we knew we'd have to fight." Besides from fear, which made his voice quiver, there was now resolution in his eyes. Thomas felt like kissing him so hard they became one.

But... Why were the Grievers waiting? They were a large group, an easy target. Why not attacking them? Was it some kind of twisted game? Were the Creators... _enjoying_ this? Did they have any actual chance? Thomas felt sick to his stomach. Talking about the plan had been easy; now that they faced its reality, his insides were frozen with fear.

"Maybe they've already taken a kid back at the Glade," he suggested, his voice shaky. "Maybe we can get past them—why else would they just be sitting—"

A lound noise from behind cut him off. Thomas felt his heart sinking to the floor, all heat being drained from his body. An ambush. It was an ambush.

More Grievers were rolling down the corridor towards them, with all their lethal metal arms out and ready to kill. Before anyone could even gasp, more horrisone sounds came from the other end of the long alley—another pack of Grievers. They were approaching the Gladers from all sides. 

They were completely blocked.

All Gladers crowded against Thomas in a tight group, forcing him towards the intersection where the Cliff met the alley. The Grievers between them and the Cliff drew closer as they pushed him forwards, spikes extended, their skin pulsing like some sort of repulsive heart. Waiting, watching. A lack of sound from the other two corridors let him know that the other groups of Grievers had stopped. Waiting, watching too.

Thomas gulped, realizing that there was no option but to make their way through the Grievers that guarded the Cliff. He was pressed between Newt and Teresa—he could feel Newt trembling. He reached out discretely and squeezed his hand, trying to soothe him. No one said a word. The only soundtrack of the horrid scene were the moans and machinery whirrs from the Grievers' bodies.

 _What are they doing?_ Thomas asked Teresa mentally. _What are they waiting for?_

Teresa didn't answer, which felt like sinking into a freezing cold pool. He grabbed her hand, holding it the way he held Newt's. He gathered the little braveness he had left and tried to transmit it to them. Around them, the Gladers clutched their rough handmade weapons.

"Got any ideas?" Thomas looked over at Newt, who looked like he was going to fall to pieces at any moment.

"No," he replied, his voice just the tiniest bit shaky. "I don't understand what they're bloody waitin' for."

"We shouldn't have come," Alby muttered. He'd been quiet during most of the run, so his voice felt odd now, specially with the hollow echo created by the walls of the Maze.

No. Whining was not the answer. Thomas wasn't in the mood for putting up with Alby's complaints. They _had_ to do something.

"Well, we'd be no better off in the Homestead. Hate to say it, but if one of us dies, that's better than all of us." If only the one-person-a-night thing were true. He hoped it was.

A long moment passed before Alby replied. "Maybe I should..."

The sentence died midways as he walked forward—towards the Cliff—slowly, as if in trance. Thomas watched in shock, unable to believe his eyes.

"Alby?" Newt called. "Get back here!"

Instead of answering, Alby sprinted towards the pack of Grievers.

"ALBY!" Newt screamed.

Thomas started to say something himself, but Alby had already reached the monsters and jumped on top of one like a cowboy in a rodeo. Newt let go of Thomas' hand and moved towards Alby—but five or six Grievers were already all over him in a blur of metal and skin. Instinctively, Thomas jumped forwards and grabbed Newt in a bear hug before he could go any further, pulling him backwards.

"Let go!" Newt yelled, struggling to break loose. Thomas tightened his grip around him—there was nothing romantic in that gesture. Only the urgence of survival.

"Are you nuts!" Thomas shouted. "There's nothing you can do!"

Two more Grievers swarmed over Alby, piling on top of each other, snapping and cutting at the boy, as if they wanted to rub it in, displaying their vicious cruelty. Somehow, impossibly, Alby didn't scream. Thomas lost sight of him as he struggled with Newt, thankful for the distraction. Newt finally gave up, collapsing backwards in defeat. Thomas fell to his knees besides him.

"It's alright," he whispered in his ear. He let Newt lean on him, burying his face in his T-shirt, wettening it with tears. "It's alright, Newt. I'm here. It's alright."

No one spoke a word. Alby'd flipped once and for all, Thomas thought, stroking Newt's hair as he fighted the urge to throw up. Their leader had been so scared to return to whatever he'd seen, he'd chosen to sacrifice himself instead. He was gone. Forever.

Thomas helped Newt to his feet; he couldn't stop staring at the spot where his friend had disappeared. 

"I can't believe it," he muttered in a husky whisper. "I can't believe he just... did that."

Thomas shook his head, unable to even swallow due to a knot in his throat, so tight it hurt. Seeing Alby go down like that... An unknown kind of pain flooded his insides—an ill, disturbed pain. It felt worse than the physical kind. And he didn't even know if it had to do with Alby. But the thought that what he'd just seen might happen to Chuck, or Teresa—or Newt...

Minho moved closer to them, and squeezed Newt's shoulder. "We can't waste what he did. We'll fight 'em if we have to, make a path to the Cliff for you and Teresa. Get in the Hole and do your thing—we'll keep them off until you scream for us to follow."

Thomas peeked at each of the three packs of Grievers—none had made a move towards them yet—and nodded. "Hopefully they'll go dormant for a while. We should only need a minute or so to punch in the code."

Newt just stared at the spot where the Grievers seemed to be _feeding_ on Alby. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed along with his eyes. He looked fragile, like a thin crystal that's cracking.

"Alby didn't wanna go back to his old life," Minho spoke up, turning to look at the Gladers. "He freaking _sacrificed_ himself for us. Let's not waste what he did! Number one priority is to protect Thomas and Teresa. Get them to the Cliff and the Hole so—"

Screeches came from all directions, along with tinkling whirls and snapping sounds, cutting Minho off. 

The Grievers had come back to life.

 

Even as they ran, Thomas repeated the code words over and over again in his mind. _FLOAT, CATCH, BLEED, DEATH, STIFF, PUSH._ They were near the Cliff, getting closer with every step. They just had to make it a dozen feet more.

 _Something just sliced my arm!_ Teresa screamed. Even as she said it, Thomas felt a sharp stab in his leg. He heard Chuck yell, too.

Hopefully, he could save the kid. When the Grievers ambushed them and pincers and metal arms flew everywhere, Thomas had grabbed him without a second thought. He was too young to die there. He just had to make sure he didn't let go of Teresa's hand.

Thomas wanted to grab Newt, too, but he hadn't let  him—he'd grabbed his top-wired pole and begun pricking Grievers, his eyes gleaming with an unknown rage. Now Thomas knew how Newt had felt when he ran into the Maze, or when he jumped into a pack of Grievers to get himself stung. It was like someone had grabbed his heart and was trying to tear it in two. He wanted to crouch and hide his head between his knees, and then shout until his vocal chords broke and he could never speak again.

Battles clashed on both sides of them; Thomas refused to look, refused to help. A Griever spun directly in his path; a boy, his face hidden from sight, was clutched in its claws, stabbing into the thick skin, trying to scape. Thomas' heart froze in his chest until he saw that the boy's clothes weren't Newts, until he remembered that Newt wasn't armed with a kitchen knife but with his pole. He dodged to the left, snapping out of it. He heard a shriek as he passed by, but all he could think of was that it wasn't Newt. It wasn't his Newt.

 _Keep going!_ Teresa said.

 _"I know!"_ Thomas shouted back, this time out loud.

Someone sprinted past Thomas, bumped him. A Griever charged in from the right, blades twirling. A Glader cut it off, attacked it with two long swords, metal clacking and clanging as they fought. Thomas heard a distant voice, screaming the same words over and over, something about him. About protecting him as he ran. It was Minho, desperation and fatigue radiant in his shouts.

Thomas kept going.

 _One almost got Chuck!_ Teresa yelled, a violent echo in his head.

More Grievers came at them, more Gladers helped. Winston had picked up Alby's bow and arrow, stabbing at anything nonhuman that moved, missing more than he hit. Boys Thomas didn't know ran besides him, parrying Griever instruments with their handmade weapons, attacking them. The sounds—clashes, clangs, screams, moaning wails, roars of engines, spinning saws, snapping blades, the screech of spikes against the floor, hair-rising pleas for help—grew to a crescendo, became unbearable.

Thomas screamed, but kept running until they made it to the Cliff. He skidded to a stop, right on the edge. Teresa and Chuck bumped into him, almost sending all three of them to an endless fall. In a split second, Thomas analyzed the Griever Hole. Hanging out, in the middle of thin air, were ivy vines stretching to nowhere.

Earlier, Minho and a couple of Runners had made large ropes of braided ivy and knotted them to vines still attached to the walls, then thrown the loose ends over the Cliff into the Griever Hole. Now six or seven vines ran from the stone edge to an invisible square, disappearing into its nothingness.

It was time to jump. Thomas hesitated, feeling one last stab of stark terror—hearing the horrible sounds of the skirmish behind him, worried sick whether one of the screams filling the air was from Newt—then snapped out of it. "You first, Teresa." He wanted to be the last one to make sure a Griever didn't get her or Chuck. To stay the nearest he could to Newt as long as possible.

The girl didn't hesitate. After squeezing Thomas' hand, then Chuck's shoulder, she leaped off the edge. Thomas held his breath until she slipped into the spot between the cut-off ivy ropes and disappeared. 

"Whoa!" Chuck yelled, the slightest remnant of his old self breaking through.

" _Whoa_ is right," Thomas agreed. "You're next."

Before Chuck could argue, Thomas grabbed him under his arms, squeezing his torso. "Push off with your legs and I'll give you a lift. Ready? One, two, _three!_ " Thomas grunted with effort, heaving the boy towards the Hole.

Chuck screamed as he flew through the air, and almost missed the Hole; but his feet went through, then his stomach and arms, then he disappeared inside. His bravery solidified something in Thomas' heart. He loved the kid. He loved him as if they had the same mom.

Thomas checked the strips of his backpack, holding his makeshift spear tightly in his right fist. He couldn't help a last glimpse backwards, the last attempt to see if Newt was alright, still alive. The sounds were awful, terrible—he felt guilty for not helping. _Do your part,_ he ordered himself.

Breathing deeply to steel his nerves, he tapped his spear against the ground and then jumped, feeling like he'd left his stomach behind at some point of his trajectory as he catapulted up and into the twilight air. He hugged the spear. 

Then he hit the Hole.

 

As he went down through the Griever Hole, Thomas felt as if he had jumped into a pool of frozen water. Starting from his toes and continuing up his entire body, a flash of cold shot across his skin while the world turned black. He landed with a thump on a slippery surface, which then shot out from under him; he fell into Teresa's arms. She and Chuck helped him stand. It was a miracle Thomas hadn't stabbed someone's eye out with his spear.

The Griever Hole would've been pitch black if it wasn't for Teresa's flashlight. A beam of light illuminated the ten-foot-high stone cylinder they stood in. The walls were covered in shiny, grimy oil, and it stretched out in front of them for dozens of yards before it faded into darkness.  
 Thomas looked up at the Hole through which they'd fallen—it was the only light in the blackness above them.

"The computer's over here," Teresa said, catching his attention.

Several feet down the tunnel, she aimed her light at a small square of glass that 

 

shone a dull green colour. A keyboard was set into the wall, angling out enough for someone to type easily if standing. There it was, ready for the code. But... Somehow, it was too easy, too good to be true.

"Put the words in!" Chuck yelled, slapping his shoulder. "Hurry!"

Thomas tilted his chin towards Teresa for her to do it. "Chuck and I'll keep watch, make sure a Griever doesn't come through the Hole." He hoped that the beasts would be too busy with the fray against the Gladers to check on their Hole.

"Okay," Teresa said. She was too smart to wast time arguing. She stepped up to the keyboard and started typing.

 _Wait!_ Thomas called to her mind. _Are you sure you know the words?_

She turned to him and scowled. "I'm not an idiot, Tom. Yes, I'm perfectly capable of remembering—"

A loud bang from above and behind them cut her off, made Thomas jump. He turned around to see a Griever plop through the Hole. The thing had retracted it spikes and arms to ended—when it landed with a disgusting wet sound, a dozen sharp objects popped back out, looking deadlier than ever, faintly shining in the dark.

Thomas stepped in front of Chuck and faced the creature, holding out his spear. As if that would hold the thing back. "Just keep typing, Teresa!" he yelled. Then, the Griever attacked.

 

Thomas didn't know how many times he stabbed the creature until it died. The first signal that it was beatable came when Thomas swung his spear, crashing it into the base of the monster's claws. With a loud clunk, and then a squishing sound, the entire arm ripped free, falling to the floor. Then, from some kind of invisible mouth, the Griever let out a long, ear-splitting shriek and pulled back; the spikes disappeared.

He then went on sieging the beast, jumping atop of it and whacking his metal arms away. He lifted the spear above his head, stiffening his whole body—he felt his feet sink into the Griever's disgusting blubber—then thrust the spear down and into the monster. A slimy yellow goo exploded from the flesh, splashing over Thomas' legs as he pushed the spear as far as he could into the Griever's body. Then he released the weapon and jumped away, returning besides Chuck and Teresa.

"You killed it," Chuck said. He laughed, as if that had solved all their problems. In front of them, the Griever tossed and turned, spewing the yellow oil in every direction. Soon it began to slow, losing energy with every drop of blood—or fuel—it lost.

"Wasn't so hard," Thomas muttered, then turned to see Teresa frantically typing. He knew immediately that something was wrong. "What's the problem?" he shouted. He ran up to look over her shoulder. He felt his spirits plummet to the dumps. The code. She couldn't complete the code.

She kept typing the word _PUSH,_ but nothing appeared on the screen.


	31. ...push (*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final of Night Visions is here!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALL THE SUPPORT, GUYS! I arrived here a very short time ago, and you've welcomed my work with such enthusiasm and glee, I can't help but smile every time I read your comments or see that you've left kudos, or simply taken a look at it. I love you from the bottom of my heart. Thanks for being there. I hope this has lived up to your expectations! :)

"I put in all the words and one by one they appeared on the screen; then something beeped and they'd disappear. But it won't let me type the last word! Nothing's happening!"

Teresa's words pierced Thomas' heart like ice daggers, freezing all hope as they stung him. "Well... Why?"

"I don't know!" She tried again, then again. Nothing changed.

 _"Thomas!"_ Chuck screamed from behind them. Thomas swung to see him pointing at the Griever Hole—another creature was making its way through. As he watched, it plopped down on top of its dead brother, moaning, and another Griever started entering the Hole. "What's taking so long!" Chuck cried frantically. "You said they'd turn off when you punched the code!"

Both Grievers had steadied themselves and extended their spikes, moving towards them.

"It won't let us enter the word _PUSH,"_ Thomas absently explained, not really speaking to Chuck, trying to come up with a solution...

 _I don't get it!_ Teresa said. Neither did he.

What was wrong? It was supposed to work. Thomas stared at the Grievers lukewarmedly, almost without seeing them. Their friends were dying up there for _something._ The code was supposed to—

"Maybe you should just push that button," Chuck said.

Thomas was so surprised by the random statement that he looked away from the Grievers to glance towards the kid. Chuck was pointing at a spot near the floor, right underneath the screen and the keyboard.

Teresa was already there, crouched on her knees. And consumed by curiosity, by a fleeting hope, Thomas joined her, collapsing to the ground to get a better look. He heard the Grievers moan and roar behind him, felt something clawing his back and a sharp prick of pain. But he could only stare.

A small red button was set into the wall only a few inches above the floor. Three black words were printed there, so obvious he couldn't believe he'd missed it earlier.

**Kill the Maze**

Another wave of pain snapped Thomas out of his stupor. The Griever had grabbed him with two pincers, dragging him backwards. The other one was preying Chuck, trying to stab the kid with a long blade.

A button.

" _PUSH!"_ Thomas screamed, louder than he'd thought possible for a human being. He felt his throat soar at the yell. It hurt.

Teresa did.

She pushed the button and everything fell dead silent. Then, from somewhere down the dark tunnel, came the sliding sound of a door opening. 

 

The Grievers had shut down completely, their deadly metal arms sucked back through their blubbery skin, their lights turned off, their inside engine quiet. And that door...

Thomas fell to the floor after being released from the monster's claws, and despite a lacerating pain all across his back, the sound of the door slipping open elated him so much, he didn't know how to react. He gasped, then laughed, then began sobbing  before breaking into laughter again. They did it. They solved the Maze.

It was like someone had put all the positive feelings inside a fridge and locked it down the moment Teresa triggered the Ending—and he'd just found the key to that fridge and released all the good emotions. They defroze with every moment that passed, invading him, soothing his altered heart and exiling all anguish, dread, terror and misery.

Chuck had scooted away from the Grievers—Teresa held him in a tight hug, squeezing him fiercely. "You did it, Chuck," Teresa said. "We were so worried about the stupid code words, we didn't think to look around for something to _push—_ the last word, the last piece of the puzzle."

Thomas laughed again, in disbelief that they'd managed to solve the Maze after all they'd gone through. "She's right, Chuck—you saved us, man! I _told_ you we needed you!" Thomas rose to his feet and joined the bear hugh. Down his face rolled hot tears of happiness, of relief that it was over. "Chuck's a shucking hero!"

"What about the others?" Teresa said with a nod toward the Griever Hole. Thomas felt the delirious happiness wither, and he stepped back and turned to face the Hole.

As if to answer her question, someone fell through the black square—it was Minho, looking as if he'd been scratched by a very furious legion of cats.

"Minho!" Thomas shouted, filled with relief. "Are you okay? What about everybody else?"

Minho hobbled towards the curved wall of the tunnel, then leaned there, breathing heavily. "We lost a ton of people... It's a mess of blood up there... Then they all just shut down." He paused, taking in a deep, shaky breath. "You did it. I can't believe it actually worked."

Thomas didn't listen to his last words. His mind was stuck in Minho's first sentence. 

_We lost a ton of people_.

Newt.

He had been up there the whole time.

He hadn't come down the Hole with Minho.

Thomas began breathing faster and faster, taking almost no air. He felt a heavy pressure on his chest, like an elephant had sit atop of him. His lungs couldn't take in enough air, because it hurt. Whenever he gasped in the slightest breath of air, it hurt like a thousand burning needles on his torso. There was a buzz in his ears, an army of bees roaring. Or weren't there bees? He didn't see any, but what else could be causing the noise?

He rose a shaky hand to his hair, then closed his fist around it so tight, he actually ripped some strands off. He wasn't in the Griever Hole anymore; he was standing on the Cliff, blood staining the floor, the corpses, Newt's pale and still body. Death in the air. Death in his heart.

Why hadn't he grabbed him stronger? Why had he let him go? Why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy

why 

_why_

_**why.** _

If one could be dead while alive, Thomas was.

He closed his eyes. A part of him thought it was funny how fast the heart changed from complete elation to complete devastation, but it was soon swallowed by the void of guilt and pain. After all, he hadn't been able to save what mattered the most.

Something dropped to the floor with a _thump._ And then another _thump._ And another, and another... There were eighteen landings in total, counting Minho's, though Thomas didn't want to open his eyes. He was afraid that he wouldn't see Newt and confirm his worst fear.

"Half have died," Minho somberly say. "But you know what? Half might've died, but half of us shucking lived. And nobody got stung—just like Thomas thought. We've gotta get out of here."

Half. A fifty percent. The chances were that, in one of every two cases, Newt had died. Thomas hadn't heard him yet, and if he were there, he would've already called him Tommy. Congratted them. Said something. Done something. _Anything._

Too many had died. Too many by far. The painful hole in his chest widened, mourning the twenty people who'd been killed as well. Despite knowing that, hadn't they tried, _all_ of them might have died, it still hurt to think that they'd lost so many Gladers. Such a display of death—how could it be considered a victory?

 

"Well, let's bloody get out of here. Right now."

 

Thomas opened his eyes.

 

Normally, the first thing you'd say to a loved one whom you thought was dead but is actually alive—though bruised and covered in yellow Griever ooze, dirt and blood—is not "I hate you"; yet that's what Thomas yelled when he saw Newt standing besides Frypan.

"I HATE YOU, NEWTON!" he screamed. Even though he still felt horrible for the dead Gladers, an overwhelming anger was taking over quickly, filling the hole that Newt's hypothetical death had carved in his chest. He knew he should've been over the Moon, having checked that Newt was still alive; but he was besides himself with anger. "I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD, FUCKING SHANK!"

"Well, I'm obviously not," Newt calmly replied. He began scratching a large scab of blood on his left arm. He wasn't holding his pole anymore and, just like the rest of the Gladers', his garments were torn apart. Thomas glimpsed the slightest hint of a deep scratch across his chest.

"I thought you were dead," Thomas repeated quietly, taking a moment to process that Newt _was still alive,_ that his death had been a horrible trick of his mind. "I swear, I... I hate you."

"Please, Thomas," Newt snorted, unfolding his arms, "shut your bloody hole and kiss me."

 

They didn't have to say anything else; they didn't talk any more. When Thomas crashed into Newt's open arms, they were two forces of nature colliding; a roaring wave breaking against a cliff. They fit so perfectly, it felt as if they'd been designed to be one. 

Thomas' lips were warm against Newt's. And that's the only thing on which Newt could focus. How warm, respectful, careful and sweet they were. Thomas' energic personality, which was what grabbed his attention from the very first moment, seemed to have faded, making room for a child that has taken the first step but doesn't dare to aim for the second. 

_"Now we're even,"_ Newt would say when they pulled apart. But he didn't say or even think that, because Thomas had taken over all of him. He was able to gather enough willpower to make himself bite Thomas' lower lip gently, but after that, he just let go. 

He forgot about the Gladers, about the Grievers, about the Creators; he forgot the worse minutes of his life, the time he'd just spent fighting the Maze's hideous creatures and watching his partners die. Newt forgot there was anything else in the world besides Thomas. 

And why did it matter, anyway? It couldn't be better than the boy he held in his arms. The one who flooded his insides with relief and warmth, reaching every inch of his being and dissolving all the fear and the grief.

Finally, after two years of painful survival in the Glade, he allowed himself to be free. Free from worry, from depression, from boredom, for despair, from responsibility, from anger, from leadership, from memories, from deaths, from losses, from guilt, from insecurities. Free to laugh, to live, to dream, to smile, to kiss, to hug, to hope, to love. Free like a bird. Free as he had always wished. He allowed Thomas to be his freedom. And he decided to embrace this freedom once and for all, and to never leave his side.

 

No one spoke a word about the passionate kisses they shared after, even though it was worth commenting. Either the exhaustion from the battle or the startle from the scene prevented all Gladers from making fun or even giving their opinion; if they had any, they saved it for themselves. Only Teresa talked to Thomas.

 _You look happier than I've ever seen you before,_ she said. Thomas reached out mentally to scan her thoughts, trying to distinguish any encountered feeling, but he only found tender and pride, the kind of pride you feel when your best friend finds the love of their life.

 _Well, I am._ He squeezed Newt's hand, enjoying the simple pleasure of being able to do so publicly. _Thought this shank was dead, and here he is.  
_

_Tom..._ Teresa hesitated for a while before going on. _You didn't understand me. What I'm trying to say is, does he make you happy?_

Thomas didn't need to think twice. _He makes me happier than anything else._

An image flashed before Thomas' eyes—a young man, with auburn hair and a warm smile. _I'm glad you remembered him,_ she said in his mind. _When I saw him, I remembered a bit about... What happened before the Maze. I remembered you with him, smiling. It was the truest smile I've ever seen, Tom. I'm... I'm so glad to see it again._

When Thomas looked at her, Teresa was wiping her eyes discretely. She smiled at him, her eyes watery with tears. Despite all the losses, Thomas felt so happy at that moment that he didn't mind hugging Teresa in front of everyone. The Gladers would have plenty of issues to talk about that night, that was for sure. He passed his right arm over the girl's shoulders, bringing her closer. _Thanks, Teresa,_ he thought. He let his gratitude impregnate those two words. _For everything._

 _You're welcome, Tom,_ she answered. Thomas felt her smiling.

And right there, down the Griever Hole, holding his best friend and his love, Thomas felt complete. They didn't know what awaited them at the end of the corridor, nor did they have any idea of what would happen next. But it didn't matter anymore. 

Not when he had Newt by his side.

Not as long as he did.

Not while he had his love to keep him going.

It simply didn't matter as long as they had each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Roses are red,  
> Violets are blue,  
> Shuck you if you don't ship them  
> Because Thomas is in love with Newt.


End file.
